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DEMOCKACY  AND   EMPIEE 


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DEMOCRACY   AND    EMPIRE 


WITH  STUDIES  OF 


THEIR  PSYCHOLOGICAL,  ECONOMIC,  AND 
MORAL  FOUNDATIONS 


BY 


FRANKLIN   HENRY   GIDDINGS,  M.A.,  Ph.D. 

PEOFESSOR   IN   COLUMBIA   UNIVERSITY,    NEW  YORK 
AUTHOR  OF   "the    PRINCIPLES  OF  SOCIOLOGY" 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1900 

All  rights  reserved, 


"1  ■  ''■ 


&  '^  -^ 


Copyright,  1900, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


IfnrfaDDli  ^DrfSB 

J.  8.  CushinR  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mais.  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

This  book  is  the  product  of  a  nearly  continuous  interest 
which,  for  more  than  ten  years,  I  have  felt  in  the  problems 
of  "Democracy"  and  of  "Empire."  My  studies  of  theo- 
retical sociology  long  ago  led  me  to  believe  that  the  combi- 
nation of  small  states  into  larger  political  aggregates  must 
continue  until  all  the  semi-civilized,  barbarian,  and  savage 
communities  of  the  world  are  brought  under  the  protection 
of  the  larger  civilized  nations.  I  became  convinced  also 
that  the  future  of  civilization  will  depend  largely,  and  per- 
haps chiefly,  upon  the  predominant  influence  of  either  the 
English-speaking  people  of  the  world  or  of  the  Russian 
Empire,  according  as  one  or  the  other  of  these  two  gigantic 
powers  wins  the  advantage  in  the  international  struggle  for 
existence.  At  the  same  time,  I  remained  convinced  that 
the  democratic  tendencies  of  the  nineteenth  century  are  not 
likely  to  be  checked  or  thwarted  in  our  own  or  in  future 
generations.  Every  phase  of  this  democratic  movement  has 
strongly  interested  me ;  and  I  have  found  myself  viewing  it 
from  the  standpoints  of  industry,  of  politics,  and  of  educa- 
tion. I  could  not  cease  my  study  of  these  problems  until  I 
had  tried  to  see  them  in  their  mutually  qualifying  relations, 
to  see  how  the  different  modes  of  democracy  sometimes 
limit  and  sometimes  strengthen  one  another,  and  to  under- 
stand how  it  is  that  democracy  and  empire,  paradoxical  as 
such  a  relationship  seems,  are  really  only  correlative  aspects 
of  the  evolution  of  mankind.     As  a  student  and  teacher  of 


Vi  PREFACE 

sociology,  I  found  it  necessary  to  go  even  one  step  further, 
and  attempt  to  discover  the  relations  of  these  phenomena 
of  democracy  and  empire  to  the  psychology  of  society  and 
to  the  fundamental  economic  and  ethical  motives  of  human 
effort. 

The  result  of  it  all  is  a  volume  that,  whatever  its  defects, 
^hich  I  know  are  many,  may  at  least  claim  the  merit  of 
attempting  to  look  at  the  problems  of  democracy  and  empire 
in  a  broad  way,  and  with  due  reference  to  the  interaction  of 
many  motives  and  tendencies  that  too  often  are  studied  by 
the  method  of  isolation,  with  consequences  of  distorted  view 
or  of  pessimistic  feeling,  not  justified  by  fact.  Inasmuch  as 
some  of  the  papers  which  follow  have  appeared  from  time  to 
time  in  periodicals,  while  others  were  prepared  and  delivered 
as  lectures  or  addresses,  that  have  not  hitherto  been  pub- 
lished, I  have  thought  best  to  retain,  as  far  as  possible,  their 
original  form.  In  form,  therefore,  the  volume  is  a  collection 
of  essays  and  addresses ;  but,  in  reality,  it  is  much  more. 
The  several  papers  could  as  well  have  been  presented  as 
successive  chapters,  for  they  are  logically  related  parts  of  a 
whole.  A  definite  thesis  is  stated  in  the  first  paper,  and 
a  definite  conclusion  is  reached  in  the  last.  The  interme- 
diate papers  are  successive  steps  in  a  continuous  argument. 

I  wish  to  express  my  obligations  to  editors  and  publishers 
who  have  kindly  permitted  me  to  reproduce  matter  that  has 
appeared  in  periodicals.  For  the  convenience  of  students,  a 
record  of  dates  of  publication  of  essays  and  of  delivery  of 
lectures  will  be  found  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 

I  am  under  renewed  obligations  to  my  colleagues  of  the 
Faculty  of  Political  Science  of  Columbia  University.  For 
many  excellent  suggestions  I  owe  thanks  to  Mr.  George  W. 
Morgan,  who  has  helped  me  in  the  preparation  of  manu- 
script, and  to  Mr.  Arthur  M.  Day,  who  has  kindly  read  my 


PEEFACE  vii 

proofs,  but  who  must  not  be  held  responsible  for  errors  that 
have  escaped  detection.  My  son,  who  made  the  full  index 
for  my  "Principles  of  Sociology,"  has  prepared  for  this  book 
the  less  detailed  index  that  I  have  deemed  sufficient. 

Neither  this  volume,  nor  any  other  of  my  books,  could  have 
been  written  in  the  brief  intermissions  of  labours  as  varied 
as  mine  have  been  (both  during  the  ten  years  that  werfe 
given  to  daily  newspaper  work,  and  during  the  subsequent 
years  that  have  been  given  to  teaching)  but  for  the  untiring 
cooperation  of  my  wife,  to  whom  above  all  others  I  am 
indebted. 

New  York, 
January,  1900. 


CONTENTS 
I 

PAGE 

The  Democratic  Empire 1 

n 

The  Ethical  Motive 13 

m 

The  Psychology  of  Society 27 

IV 
The  Mixd  of  the  Many 43 

V 

The  Costs  of  Progress 67 

VI 

Industrial  Democracy 97 

vn 

The  Trusts  and  the  Public 185 

vin 

The  Railroads  and  the  State 145 

IX 

Public  Revenue  and  Civic  Virtue 157 

X 

Some  Results  of  the  Freedom  of  Women       ....    165 

iz 


X  CONTENTS 

XI 

PAGE 

The  Nature  and  Conduct  of  Political  Majorities      .        .    177 

XII 
The  Destinies  of  Democracy 197 

XIII 

The  Relation  of  Social  Democracy  to  the  Higher  Edu- 
cation          215 

XIV 
The  Popular  Instruction  Most  Necessary  in  a  Democracy    229 

XV 
The  Shadow  and  the  Substance  of  Republican  Government    249 

XVI 
The  Consent  of  the  Governed 257 

XVII 
Imperialism 267 

XVIII 
The  Survival  of  Civil  Liberty 291 

XIX 
The  Ideals  of  Nations         ........    313 

XX 

The  Gospel  of  Non-resistance    ....•.,    341 


I 

THE  DEMOCRATIC  EMPIRE 


DEMOCEACT  AND   EMPIEE 

I 

THE  DEMOCRATIC  EMPIRE 

The  world  has  been  accustomed  to  think  of  democracy 
and  empire  as  antagonistic  phenomena.  It  has  assumed  that 
democracy  could  be  established  only  on  the  ruins  of  empire, 
and  that  the  establishment  of  empire  necessarily  meant  the 
overthrow  of  liberty  by  a  triumphant  reign  of  absolutism. 
Yet,  in  our  day,  we  are  witnessing  the  simultaneous  develop- 
ment of  both  democracy  and  empire.  The  two  most  power- 
ful nations  of  the  world  are  becoming,  year  by  year,  more 
democratic  in  their  local  life,  in  their  general  legislation,  and 
in  their  social  institutions.  Nevertheless,  for  a  generation, 
both  have  been  continually  extending  their  territorial  boun- 
daries, absorbing  outlying  states  or  colonial  possessions,  and 
developing  a  complicated  system  of  general  or  imperial  ad- 
ministration. Not  only  so,  but,  under  that  government  which 
has  carried  this  policy  to  its  highest  perfection,  the  coexist- 
ence of  democracy  and  empire  has  become  an  approximately 
perfect  blending.  Imperial  Britain  is  not  merely  a  combina- 
tion of  democracy  with  empire  in  a  fortuitous  association. 
The  union  is  organic ;  the  whole  is  a  democratic  empire. 
Not  only  has  the  home  country,  England,  become  in  the  last 
twenty-five  years  a  highly  democratic  community,  not  only 
is  the  same  thing  true  also  of  Australia  and  of  Canada ;  but 
also  in  ways  which,  though  not  quite  so  obvious,  are  not  less 
real,  it  is  becoming  true  of  India,  of  the  African  colonies, 
and  of  the  lesser  dependencies.  Not  only  to  her  colonial 
children  of  English  blood  does  England  say,  as  Kipling  puts 

3 


4  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

it,  "  And  the  Law  that  ye  make  shall  be  law  after  the  rule 
of  your  lands,"  but  practically  she  says  the  same  thing  also 
to  dwellers  in  the  Indian  village  community  and  in  the  islands 
of  the  sea.  As  long  as  they  conform  to  the  English  sense  of 
the  sacredness  of  life,  and  to  the  English  requirement  of 
social  order,  England  is  willing  to  respect  their  local  customs 
and  their  religious  faiths,  and  to  say  to  all  alike,  "  The  Law 
that  ye  make  shall  be  law,  and  I  do  not  press  my  will."  At 
the  same  time,  the  imperial  bond  grows  stronger,  with  the 
strengthening  of  that  loyalty  to  the  imperial  throne  which 
England  requires  in  exchange  for  the  protection  that  she 
extends  to  her  dependencies  and  for  the  order  that  she 
establishes  among  once  warring  factions. 

"  So  long  as  The 
Blood  endures, 
I  shall  know  that  your  good  is  mine :  ye  shall  feel  that  my 
strength  is  yours." 

What  is  the  explanation  of  this  blending  of  democracy  with 
empire,  a  thing  to  most  minds  strange  and  to  many  incredible  ? 
Like  many  another  fact  in  the  moral,  as  in  the  material  world, 
it  can  be  accounted  for  only  through  a  study  of  its  evolution. 

Before  the  dawn  of  history,  mankind  had  learned  one  fun- 
damental lesson  touching  the  conditions  that  render  human 
society  possible.  Before  any  state  was  formed,  while  still 
the  only  known  form  of  social  organization  was  that  which 
made  blood  kinship  the  basis  of  membership  in  the  tribe, 
men  had  learned  that  social  cohesion,  practical  cooperation, 
and  unity  of  purpose,  rest  on  some  kind  of  similarity  among 
the  cooperating  individuals.  They  were  intensely  alive  to 
the  importance  of  that  "  homogeneity  "  which  has  suddenly 
become  so  interesting  to  our  modern  anti-expansionists. 
They  realized  that  human  beings  too  much  unlike  could  no 
more  get  on  together  peaceably  than  the  warring  elements  of 
flood  and  fire  could  combine  in  nature.  But  their  experience 
of  homogeneity  was  of  a  narrow  sort,  and  their  ideas  about 
it  were  of  the  most  simple  description.  The  only  homoge- 
neity of  which  they  could  form  any  definite  conception  was 


THE  DEMOCRATIC  EMPIRE  5 

that  of  blood  relationship.  Men  born  of  the  same  mother  — 
brethren  in  the  literal  sense — could  understand  one  another, 
could  wish  the  same  thing,  could  work  by  like  methods,  and, 
in  fine,  could  live  together  as  a  community.  That  strangers 
might  come  together  and  organize  a  stable  social  group  — 
much  more,  that  men  of  different  tongues  and  races  might 
live  under  one  government,  would  have  been  propositions  to 
their  minds  inconceivable. 

When,  however,  with  the  beginnings  of  commerce  and  the 
development  of  mechanical  arts,  tribal  communities  that  had 
grown  to  the  proportions  of  a  town  were  invaded  by  adven- 
turers who  had  broken  away  from  their  ancient  clan  asso- 
ciations, or  whose  clan  organizations  had  been  broken  up 
by  war,  and  when  the  interlopers  began  to  multiply  and 
to  acquire  wealth,  it  became  necessary  to  devise  a  scheme 
of  government  under  which  they  could  be  included  in  the 
body  politic.  The  device  that  succeeded  after  many  experi- 
ments had  failed,  was  that  of  a  legal  fiction,  whereby  all  who 
lived  within  the  territorial  boundaries  occupied  by  a  localized 
tribe  became  nominally  —  for  political,  military,  and  fiscal 
purposes  —  members  of  a  purely  nominal  tribe,  irrespective 
of  their  blood  relationship.  It  was  a  scheme  of  wholesale 
adoption,  or,  as  we  should  now  say,  of  naturalization. 

Thus  it  was  discovered  that  men  of  different  origins  could 
live  together  amicably,  and  could  cooperate  in  public  under- 
takings ;  and,  for  the  moment,  the  radical  minds  of  their  gen- 
eration may  have  imagined  that  homogeneity  had  ceased  to 
be  a  factor  of  any  consequence  in  social  organization,  and  that 
thenceforth  communities  could  develop  without  attention  to 
such  limiting  requirements.  In  this  conclusion,  however,  if 
such  they  reached,  they  were  wholly  mistaken.  The  com- 
munity had  not  ceased  to  be  made  up  of  resembling  individu- 
als. All  that  had  happened  had  been  the  substitution  of  a 
new  and  broader  kind  of  resemblance  for  the  old  blood  kin- 
ship, as  a  basis  of  public  life.  The  resemblance  now  essential 
consisted  in  mental  and  moral  qualities,  in  capacities  for 
practical  cooperation,  in  unity  of  purpose,  and  in  agreement 
upon  methods  of  common  activity.      Mental  homogeneity. 


6  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

or  like-mindedness,  had  taken  in  men's  thoughts  the  im- 
portant place  formerly  held  by  homogeneity  in  a  physical 
sense. 

No  sooner  was  this  fact  grasped  by  the  leading  spirits  of 
the  age  than  they  were  seized  by  a  passion  to  perfect  this 
newer  type  of  homogeneity  and  to  make  it  as  complete  as 
had  been  the  old  homogeneity  of  blood.  They  perceived 
that,  through  the  contact  of  commerce  and  politics,  through 
imitation  and  comradeship,  men  originally  unlike  in  many 
important  particulars  would  undergo  assimilation  and  would 
approach  a  common  type.  That  assimilation  could  be  has- 
tened and  that  social  cohesion  could  be  made  stronger,  gen- 
eration by  generation,  through  the  systematic  development 
of  a  public  policy,  was  a  natural  thought.  So  it  came  to 
pass  that  governments  presently  adopted  certain  policies  that 
were  characteristic  of  all  early  civilizations.  The  first  step 
was  an  effort  to  bring  under  one  central  administration  all 
adjoining  regions  which,  together  with  the  dominant  city 
state,  formed  a  natural  geographic  unity,  and  those  popu- 
lations which  spoke  allied  languages  and  could  easily  be 
assimilated  to  the  common  type.  Thus  was  created  the 
enlarged  or  national  state,  in  contrast  to  the  small  city  state 
which  had  been  its  nucleus.  Through  this  policy  a  strong 
military  power  was  developed,  and  minute  military  regula- 
tion was  extended  throughout  society.  Mere  military  gov- 
ernment, however,  was  not  enough  to  establish  that  perfect 
homogeneity  of  mental  and  moral  type  which  was  desired. 
Religion  was  still  the  dominant  interest  of  the  majority 
of  men ;  and  so  religious  unification  also  was  attempted. 
Family,  gentile,  and  local  gods  througliout  the  nation  were 
subordinated  to  the  national  god  represented  by  the  king 
and  the  organized  priesthood  of  the  dominant  city.  The 
medley  of  ancient  faiths  was  blended  in  a  national,  organic 
religion,  which,  by  its  sanctions,  was  made  to  uphold  the 
authority  of  tlie  central  power.  Then,  finally,  manners  and 
customs,  forms  of  dress  and  ceremonial,  even  amusements, 
were  in  like  manner  subjected  to  a  minute  regulation,  all 
in  the  interests  of  that  perfect  homogeneity  of  mental  and 


THE  DEMOCRATIC  EMPIRE  7 

moral  type  which  now  was  believed  to  be  the  requisite  basis 
of  a  true  and  strong  national  unity. 

Such  was  the  first  stage  of  civilization.  It  was  the  estab- 
lishment of  political  and  social  homogeneity  by  coercive 
methods,  supplementing  the  spontaneous  method  of  assimi- 
lation through  social  and  commercial  intercourse,  by  means 
of  communication,  imitation,  and  the  interchange  of  ideas. 

Often  this  policy  was  developed  into  a  creation  of  vast 
military  empires.  Distant  lands  and  wholly  alien  peoples 
were  brought  by  conquest  under  the  rule  of  a  victorious 
nation,  and  compelled  to  accept  religion,  law,  and  manners 
from  the  conqueror. 

This  first  stage  of  civilization,  rude,  tyrannical,  often  brutal 
as  it  was,  accomplished  one  inestimable  good  :  it  put  an  end 
to  intertribal  wars  and  to  more  serious  contests  between 
petty  states.  Notwithstanding  the  enormous  drain  of  men 
and  treasure  into  the  imperial  armies,  it  gradually  released 
larger  numbers  of  men  and  greater  stores  of  capital  to  en- 
gage in  the  pursuits  of  peace.  The  homogeneity  of  belief 
and  habit  which,  to  a  great  extent,  it  succeeded  in  creating, 
prepared  men  to  live  together  amicably  with  comparatively 
little  governmental  restraint ;  and  so  the  very  methods 
which  at  first  absorbed  men  in  the  activities  of  militarism, 
presently  released  vast  stores  of  intellectual  and  physical 
energy  for  other  interests. 

And  so  a  second  stage  of  civilization  was  ushered  in.  Men 
became  critical :  they  began  to  demand  release  from  formal 
bonds  which  were  no  longer  necessary  to  their  well-being, 
as  they  themselves  conceived  it.  The  spirit  of  revolt  and  of 
revolution  grew  and  waxed  strong.  The  imperial  bond  was 
weakened,  and  vast  territories  became  an  easy  prey  to  in- 
vading barbarians.  Chaos  and  anarchy  slowly  gave  way  to 
the  formation  of  a  new  order  ;  and  through  successive  devel- 
opments—  of  feudalism,  of  the  growth  of  petty  principalities, 
and  of  new  city  states  —  new  political  forms  were  slowly 
evolved.  Throughout  all  these  changes,  the  spirit  of  lib- 
erty, often  suppressed,  sometimes  well-nigh  crushed,  was, 
after  all,  surely  growing  and  coming  to  its  maturity;  until 


8  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

at  length  it  swept  all  before  it  in  the  vast  morements  of  the 
Renaissance,  of  the  Reformation,  and  of  the  revolutionary 
struggle,  out  of  which  emerged  the  practical  principles  of 
personal  liberty,  freedom  of  contract,  and  constitutional  law. 

Men,  however,  had  not  forgotten  that  homogeneity  of  some 
sort  is  essential  to  social  unity.  Over  and  over  again,  they 
had  seen  its  importance  in  the  days  of  feudalism  and  of  the 
slow  emergence  of  new  national  states  from  the  ruins  of  the 
Roman  dominion  ;  and  over  and  over  they  had  attempted 
to  reassert  the  policies  of  early  civilization  in  measures  of 
religious  persecution,  in  restraints  of  trade,  and  in  sumptuary 
legislation.  The  outcome  of  these  gigantic  struggles  was 
a  conviction  that  liberty  and  social  cohesion  could  coexist 
only  in  states  of  relatively  small  dimensions,  with  well- 
defined  natural  boundaries,  and  peopled  by  men  of  substan- 
tially one  blood  and  type  of  mind.  The  doctrines  of  local 
self-government  and  of  state  rights  were  the  fruits  which  the 
second  stage  of  civilization  bore  in  political  philosophy. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  men  comfortably  settled  them- 
selves to  the  belief  that  the  final  and  ideal  form  of  social 
organization  had  been  reached,  than  another  marvellous 
change  began  to  take  place.  Under  the  opportunities 
secured  to  them  by  liberty,  men  were  stimulated  to  put 
forth  their  energies  to  the  utmost.  Enterprise  was  quick- 
ened, and  innumerable  forms  of  voluntary  cooperation  sprang 
into  existence.  Invention,  discovery,  and  exploration  re- 
vealed possibilities  of  material  well-being  of  which  the  race 
had  never  dreamed,  and  wealth  began  to  increase  and  popu- 
lation to  multiply  at  a  rate  never  before  known.  Soon  the 
new  enterprise  and  the  growing  population  began  to  threaten 
to  overflow  the  relatively  narrow  bounds  that  had  been  set  by 
the  political  philosophy  of  liberalism  to  the  republican  state. 
For  a  time  the  need  of  room  in  which  to  expand  was  perhaps 
felt  rather  than  seen  ;  but  presently  came  the  clear  percep- 
tion also,  that  by  an  almost  paradoxical  reaction,  the  indus- 
trial and  social  consequences  of  liberty  would  bring  about 
fundamental  changes  in  the  organization  of  states,  just  as,  at 
an  earlier  time,  the  policy  of  militarism  had  brought  about 


THE  DEMOCRATIC  EMPIRE  9 

the  reactions  whicli  caused  its  own  overthrow.  These  condi- 
tions manifested  themselves  chiefly  in  those  countries  which 
had  become  most  free  —  namely,  England  and  the  United 
States.  It  was  in  the  latter  that  expansion  began  on  a  large 
scale  and  in  which  its  results  first  became  apparent.  Moved 
more  perhaps  by  instinct  than  by  reasoned-out  opinions,  the 
American  people  added  to  their  Northwest  Territory  the 
Louisiana  and  Florida  purchases,  Oregon,  Texas,  and  Cali- 
fornia, Almost  before  the  most  far-seeing  of  men  realized 
what  was  happening,  the  compact  little  nation  of  the  thirteen 
original  states  had  become  a  continental  domain  ;  and  the 
homogeneous  population  of  English  blood  was  becoming  the 
most  heterogeneous  admixture  of  nationalities  of  every  speech 
and  faith  and  political  tradition  to  be  found  on  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

What,  then,  happened  ?  Did  disintegration  begin  anew  ? 
Did  the  heterogeneous  elements  so  conflict  in  interest  and  con- 
tend in  activity  that  national  unity  was  destroyed  ?  On  the 
contrary,  when  the  influence  of  that  element  of  discord  which, 
from  the  formation  of  the  Union,  had  existed  in  the  widely 
unlike  economic  and  social  systems  of  North  and  South 
culminated  in  the  Civil  War,  it  was  discovered  that  there 
had  grown  up  in  this  vast  heterogeneous  people  a  national 
feeling,  a  spirit  of  oneness,  the  like  of  which  had  never 
before  been  seen  in  all  human  history.  It  crushed  rebellion ; 
it  reinstated  in  the  sisterhood  of  commonwealths  the  seced- 
ing states;  it  extended  amnesty  to  all;  and  again  it  secured 
to  all  the  blessings  of  equal  protection,  equal  privilege,  and 
personal  freedom.  Furthermore,  when  all  this  had  been  ac- 
complished, no  tendency  was  seen  to  revert  to  those  earlier 
policies  of  civilization  whereby  the  homogeneity  necessary 
to  social  unity  was  perfected  through  coercive  means.  No 
suggestion  was  made  that,  throughout  this  vast  domain,  men 
should  be  compelled  to  confess  the  same  faith,  to  worship  in 
the  same  way,  to  dress  in  prescribed  costumes,  or  to  amuse 
themselves  according  to  forms  prescribed  by  state  authority. 
Without  knowing  exactly  why,  the  people  had  discovered  that, 
notwithstanding  the  apparent  and,  in  many  particulars,  the 


10  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

real  diversity  of  interests  and  ideas  —  to  say  nothing  of  the 
diversity  of  nationalities — some  mode  of  unity  had  been 
created  among  them  which  was  quite  sufficient  to  hold  them 
together  in  political  and  industrial  organization  as  firmly  as 
any  ancient  tribe  had  been  held  together  by  its  unity  of 
blood,  or  any  ancient  nation  by  its  unity  of  ritual  and 
ceremonial. 

What,  now,  is  the  explanation  of  so  strange  a  phenome- 
non? If  homogeneity  is  essential  to  social  cohesion  —  if, 
nevertheless,  the  ancient  unity  of  blood  or  the  less  ancient 
unity  of  faith  and  practice  is  no  longer  requisite,  what  is  the 
homogeneity  which  has  taken  their  place  and  has  proved  to 
be  so  all-sufficient  that  not  only  may  liberty  and  social  unity 
coexist,  but  that  they  may  even  coexist  and  become  ever 
more  nearly  perfect  in  a  nation  of  vast  territorial  area  to 
which  no  ultimate  bounds  can  be  predicted  in  assurance  that 
they  are  final  ?  Why,  in  short,  is  it  that  to-day  a  national 
life  is  possible,  wherein  it  has  become  wholly  unnecessary  to 
insist  upon  any  of  those  limitations  in  the  interests  of  either 
security  or  liberty  which,  in  earlier  days,  were  accepted  as 
the  very  axioms  of  political  philosophy  ? 

The  answer  is,  that  the  homogeneity  which  now  underlies 
all  successful  national  life,  or  the  wider  life  of  vast  empires 
like  that  of  Great  Britain,  is  an  ethical  one.  Kinship,  faith, 
and  habit  —  all  have  served  their  time  as  the  cohesive  bonds 
of  peoples  whom,  step  by  step,  they  have  prepared  for  the 
larger  life  of  that  human  community  in  which  agreement 
upon  two  or  three  principles  of  aspiration  and  conduct  prove 
now  to  be  a  sufficient  basis  of  vast,  intricate,  and  smoothly 
working  organization.  An  ethical  like-mindedness  has  taken 
the  place  of  all  earlier  and  simpler  modes  of  resemblance,  as 
the  foundation  of  human  society. 

In  what,  then,  does  this  ethical  like-mindedness  consist  ? 
Essentially  it  consists  in  a  common  loyalty  to  the  common 
judgment  and  will,  in  a  common  willingness  to  share  a  com- 
mon destiny,  and  in  a  common  conviction  of  the  priceless 
value  of  individual,  religious,  and  local  liberty.  Given 
mental   and   moral   agreement    in    these   particulars,  and  a 


THE  DEMOCRATIC  EMPIRE  11 

nation  of  any  territorial  extent,  of  any  admixture  of  blood, 
of  interests,  of  religions,  can  wax  strong  generation  by  gen- 
eration, while  yet  becoming  more  free  and  more  diversified 
in  its  social  organization. 

We  have  now  the  principle  by  which  to  explain  the 
wonderful  phenomenon  of  the  democratic  empire.  It  is  a 
corollary  of  this  principle  that,  when  a  nation  makes  itself 
the  nucleus  of  an  empire,  step  by  step  extending  its  sway 
over  distant  lands  and  peoples  successively  annexed,  it  can 
continue  to  be  democratic ;  it  can  become,  decade  after 
decade,  more  democratic;  it  can  even  permit  its  colonies  or 
-dependencies  to  be  democratic,  while  at  the  same  time  main- 
taining a  strong  imperial  government  for  purposes  of  a 
€ommon  defence  ;  all  on  the  one  inviolable  condition  that, 
as  it  lengthens  the  reach  of  government,  it  must  curtail  the  func- 
tions of  government.  The  small  local  community,  homoge- 
neous in  nearly  every  respect  —  in  blood,  in  traditions,  in 
beliefs,  in  interests  —  may  successfully  conduct  a  local  or 
municipal  government  of  highly  diversified  functions. 
Through  that  government  it  may  not  only  protect  life  and 
property,  but  also  build  roads  and  bridges,  operate  street 
railways,  water-works,  and  lighting  appliances,  and  main- 
tain schools  and  libraries.  But  a  national  government,  if  it 
would  respect  liberty  while  maintaining  political  cohesion, 
must  leave  most  of  these  functions  to  local  communities  or 
to  voluntary  enterprise.  An  imperial  government  must  be 
yet  more  general,  if  it  is  not  to  suppress  freedom  and  the 
democratic  spirit.  It  must  confine  itself  practically  to  three 
things,  namely  :  the  imperial  defence,  the  suppression  of 
conflict  between  one  part  of  the  empire  and  another,  and 
insistence  that  local  administration  shall  come  up  to  a  cer- 
tain standard  in  its  protection  of  life  and  property,  and  in 
its  respect  for  enlightenment.  Doing  these  things  and  only 
these,  it  can  leave  each  component  part  of  the  empire  to 
evolve  its  own  law  and  its  own  administration  in  its  own 
way,  —  to  become,  in  short,  as  democratic  as  the  spirit  and 
the  experience  of  the  people  will  permit. 

This,  then,  is  the  secret  of  the  democratic  empire, — of  that 


12  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

empire  which  England  has  already  brought  to  a  wonderful 
perfection,  of  that  empire  which  the  United  States  is  des- 
tined to  create,  and  which  we  hope  may,  in  the  coming 
centuries,  be  as  strong,  as  free,  as  broad  as  any  that  the 
world  has  ever  seen.  The  ancient  empire,  governed  in  the 
conviction  that  identity  of  belief  and  similarity  of  practice 
were  essential  to  the  homogeneity  without  which  no  society 
can  long  hold  together,  endeavoured  to  establish  a  perfect 
unity  of  faith  and  of  daily  habit  by  coercive  measures.  The 
modern  empire,  governed  in  the  belief  that  a  common  loyalty 
to  certain  common  interests  and  fundamental  principles  is  an 
all-sufficient  mode  of  homogeneity  for  the  stability  of  a  more 
complex  civilization  than  any  that  existed  in  ancient  times, 
insists  only  upon  such  loyalty,  and  trusts  to  the  spontaneous 
intercourse  of  men  in  the  pursuit  of  their  daily  vocations  to 
bring  about  a  further  assimilation  which  ultimately  will  per- 
fect the  human  race  in  the  spirit  of  brotherhood,  under  the 
single  law  of  liberty. 


II 

THE  ETHICAL  MOTIVE 


II 

THE   ETHICAL   MOTIVE 

Not  least  among  the  contributions  to  ethical  science  that 
Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  has  made  in  his  "  Principles  of  Ethics  " 
is  the  clear  and  comprehensive  description  of  conduct,  viewed 
as  a  natural  phenomenon  admitting  of  scientific  observation 
and  analysis,  which  is  presented  in  the  opening  chapters. 
There  we  are  shown  that  conduct  is  distinguished  from  ac- 
tions in  general  by  the  exclusion  of  acts  that  are  aimless 
or  purposeless.  Conduct  is  the  activity  of  a  volitional  being 
who  perceives  that  he  has  the  power  to  modify  his  own  ex- 
istence, and  who  sets  before  himself  an  end  to  be  attained. 
His  conduct,  then,  differs  from  the  merely  physiological 
activity  of  his  body  in  being  made  up  of  a  series  of  acts 
adjusted  to  the  end  which  he  has  in  view.  Good  conduct, 
in  turn,  may  be  described  as  consisting  of  acts  which,  as 
means  and  on  the  whole,  are  well  adapted  to  the  attainment 
of  such  ends  as  the  critical  judgment  pronounces  to  be  in 
themselves  worth  while,  satisfying  to  a  reason  that  has  ex- 
amined all  of  those  possible  ends  or  goals  of  action  which  have 
thus  far  appealed  to  the  mind. 

If  this  description  of  conduct  is  accepted  as  being  a  fairly 
accurate  one  —  and  doubtless  moralists  of  all  schools  admit 
that,  as  a  general  account  of  conduct,  Mr.  Spencer's  chapters 
are  true  —  a  scientific  study  of  morality  necessarily  includes 
a  critical  examination  of  the  ends  which  purposive  activity 
attempts  to  realize,  and  also  a  critical  examination  of  the 
motives  by  which  we  are  impelled  toward  the  attainment  of 
the  end  in  view. 

The  study  of  ethical  ends,  as  all  students  of  moral  systems 
are  painfully  aware,  has  produced  many  differing  hypothetical 
goals  of  action.     We  have  theological  ethics,  which  assume 

15 


16  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

that  the  chief  end  of  man  is  to  glorify  God  and  enjoy  him 
forever;  we  have  utilitarian  ethics,  which  assume  that  the 
only  practical  good  is  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest 
number;  and  we  have  idealistic  ethics,  which  assume  that 
the  perfection  of  the  rational  and  spiritual  nature  of  con- 
scious personality  itself  is  the  only  end  that  can  satisfy  the 
rational  mind. 

In  the  study  of  motives,  as  it  has  found  objective  expres- 
sion in  moral  literature,  four  distinct  hypotheses  may  be  dis- 
covered. The  first  of  these  is,  that  there  is  a  moral  intui- 
tioiL  which  is  at  once  a  revelation  Qf_xight  and  an  impelling 
ifiXg^,  driving  us  onward  toward  the  attainment  of  our  moral 
goal.  The  second  hypothesis  is,  that  there  is  a  niQjiaiinatinct, 
which  has  either  been  created  in  us  as  a  blind  but  trust- 
worthy guide,  or  has  been  developed  in  us  by  evolutionary 
processes  through  the  experiences  of  countless  generations 
of  experimenting  creatures  who  have  learned  to  go  right 
after  trying  all  the  possible  ways  of  going  wrong.  The 
third  hypothesis  is,  that  there  are  certain  classes  and  groups 
of  feelings  more  definite  than  instincts,  which  move  us  to 
moral  action ;  the  feelings,  namely,  which  we  know  as  syjib- 
pathies  and  a;ffections.  The  fourth  hypothesis  is,  that  our 
rationally  conceived  ideas  of  ethical  ends  themselves  react  as 
motor  forces,  and  draw  or  impel  us  to  attempt  to  realize  the 
conceived  ends. 

These  four  hypotheses  are  commonly  held  to  exhaust  the 
possible  explanations  of  ethical  motive.  Believing  that  this 
is  an  error,  and  that  neither  any  one  of  these  four  assump- 
tions nor  any  combination  of  them  gives  us  an  adequate 
account  of  the  psychological  process  whereby  our  voluntary 
acts  are  organized  into  that  series  which  we  describe  as  con- 
duct, I  shall  attempt  in  this  paper  to  set  forth  another  ex- 
planation. There  is  a  phase  of  the  ethical  process  that 
appears  to  me  to  have  a  very  great  importance,  and  which, 
I  think,  has  hitherto  not  received  a  suihcient  attention. 

Since  moral  conduct  consists  of  acts  adjusted  to  ends,  it  is, 
of  course,  impossible  to  discuss  motives  without  first  stating 


THE   ETHICAL  MOTIVE  17 

one's  position  in  regard  to  ends.  For  my  present  purpose, 
however,  it  is  not  necessary  to  decide  between  utilitarian- 
ism and  idealism.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  both  of  these 
schemes  of  conduct  include  in  their  conception  of  ends  the 
notion  of  a  relatively  large  and  growing  mental  life,  and 
of  a  more  varied  voluntary  activity,  as  distinguished  from 
a  diminishing  consciousness,  and  from  a  reduction  of  pur- 
posive to  automatic  or  mechanical  action.  The  utilitarian 
does  not  set  before  himself  a  temporary  or  exhausting  pleas- 
ure ;  he  pictures  rather  the  happiness  which  is  concomitant 
of  large  and  varied  life.  The  idealist  no  less  distinctly  looks 
to  the  enlargement  of  the  rational  and  spiritual  nature  as  an 
essential  phase  of  that  perfection  which  he  desires.  For  the 
purpose  of  the  present  argument,  then,  it  is  sufficient  to  say 
that  the  moral  motive  is  one  that  makes  for  largeness  of 
conscious  life. 

If  so  much  is  granted,  the  reader  is  prepared  for  a  sug- 
gestion which  I  have  now  to  make.  It  is  that,  as  a  result 
of  studies  which,  in  recent  years,  have  been  made  in  quite 
another  part  of  the  psychological  field,  we  are  now,  for  the 
first  time,  in  a  position  to  make  discoveries  in  regard  to  the 
origin  and  the  strength  of  the  moral  impulses  and  in  regard 
to  the  conditions  of  their  growth. 

The  studies  to  which  I  refer  are  those  that  have  been 
made  in  the  psychology  of  economic  activity,  and  which 
have  undertaken  to  explain  the  nature  and  to  formulate  the 
laws  of  economic  motive.  Most  readers,  even  those  who  are 
not  particularly  interested  in  economic  discussions,  have  by 
this  time  some  notion  of  the  modern  psychological  theories 
of  utility  and  value.  The  names  of  Cournot,  Gossen,  Walras, 
Menger,  and  Jevons  have  crept  into  current  literature,  and 
nearly  everybody  knows  the  essential  doctrine  for  which 
they  stand.  We  no  longer  think  of  utility  as  a  quality  in- 
herent in  objective  things  or  conditions.  Objects  of  our 
strongest  desire  afford  us  more  or  less  satisfaction  according 
to  ever-varying  circumstances.  Food  itself  may  please 
or  disgust,  according  as  we  are  still  hungry  or  have  over- 
indulged  the   appetite.      Every   commodity  offered  in  the 


18  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

market  appeals  strongly,  or  in  slight  degree,  or  not  at  all,  to 
the  desires  of  possible  purchasers,  according  as  they  have 
been  able  already  to  satisfy  those  desires  in  some  measure 
through  a  preceding  supply.  Psychologically,  then,  utility 
and  value  are  phenomena  that  diminish  as  the  consumption 
of  the  means  of  satisfying  desire  increases.  Every  want 
admits  of  satisfaction,  and  every  satisfaction  may  become 
satiety. 

There  are  certain  implications  of  this  theory  that  have  not 
yet  been  duly  examined  by  either  economists  or  psychologists. 
It  is  implied  that  an  economic  satisfaction  is  the  pleasurable 
activity  of  a  particular  organ  or  group  of  organs,  at  a  par- 
ticular time  and  in  a  particular  way.  For  example,  to  return 
to  the  illustration  of  the  consumption  of  food,  it  is  not  main- 
tained—  and,  of  course,  no  one  could  maintain  —  that  food 
has  a  diminishing  subjective  utility  at  all  times.  Its  value 
to  the  organism  falls  as  hunger  is  appeased,  but  with  the  re- 
turn of  appetite  the  subjective  value  of  food  again  rises.  In 
like  manner,  it  could  not  be  maintained  that  the  subjective 
value  of  food  must  follow  a  descending  curve,  if  food  articles 
had  the  power  of  ministering  in  equal  degree  to  every  organ 
of  the  body.  If,  for  example,  a  single  class  of  material  goods 
afforded  us  all  the  pleasures  that  we  craved,  so  that  by  means 
of  commodities  fit  for  food  we  could  satisfy  the  desires  for 
clothing,  for  shelter,  for  amusement,  and  for  instruction,  the 
subjective  values  of  these  commodities  would  remain  forever 
at  their  maximum  point.  Subjective  values,  then,  rise  and 
fall  simply  because  each  commodity  has  the  power  of  satis- 
fying only  the  cravings  of  some  particular  organ  or  group 
of  organs,  and  usually  under  some  particular  combination  of 
conditions  existing  at  a  given  time. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  prove  that  within  certain  limits 
these  particular  satisfactions  indirectly  minister  to  other 
organs  than  those  immediately  active,  and,  indeed,  to  tlie 
whole  organism.  Food  not  only  satisfies  the  immediate 
cravings  of  the  stomach,  but  it  affords  the  pleasures  which 
spring  from  the  organic  sensations  of  vigour.  Neverthe- 
less, it  is  perfectly  obvious  that  there  are  limits,  beyond 


THE  ETHICAL  MOTIVE  19' 

whicli  the  satisfaction  of  a  particular  organ  or  group  of  or- 
gans may  deprive  other  organs  of  those  means  of  satisfaction 
which  they  crave,  inhibit  various  activities,  and  deplete  the  en- 
tire organism.  The  man  who  should  spend  all  his  substance 
upon  his  table  would,  for  that  reason,  be  compelled  to  do 
without  other  material  gratifications  ;  he  undoubtedly  would 
starve  his  intellectual  nature,  and,  sooner  or  later,  he  would 
reduce  a  large  part  of  his  physical  system  also  to  a  condition 
of  atrophy. 

This  implication  of  the  modern  theory  of  subjective  utility 
is  so  obvious  that  further  insistence  upon  it  would  seem  to 
be  quite  unnecessary.  A  second  implication,  if  not  quite  so 
obvious,  is  not  less  certain.  If  the  cravings  of  a  particular 
organ  or  group  of  organs  are  being  liberally  met  with  appro- 
priate satisfactions,  while  other  organs  suffer  deprivation, 
the  neglected  organs  set  up  a  protest,  which  usually  is  suffi- 
ciently importunate  to  compel  us  to  attempt  their  appeasing. 
The  hunger  of  the  neglected  parts  of  our  nature  normally 
takes  possession  of  consciousness,  and  diverts  our  attention 
and  our  effort  from  the  organ  which  is  receiving  more  than 
its  due  share  of  indulgence.  Now  this  hunger  of  the  entire 
organism  for  a  varied  satisfaction,  and  this  protest  of  the 
entire  organism  against  the  over-indulgence  of  any  one  appe- 
tite, is  obviously  a  phenomenon  quite  distinct  from  those  par- 
ticularistic desires  for  specific  satisfactions  which  in  recent 
years  have  been  recognized  as  the  specific  economic  motives. 

Thus  distinct  and  general,  the  craving  of  the  organism  for 
integral  satisfaction,  and  the  organic  protest  against  any  ex- 
cess of  particularistic  indulgence,  constitute,  I  think,  the 
ethical  motive  in  its  original,  physiological  form. 

There  is,  then,  a  real  and  fundamental  difference  between 
the  economic  motive  and  the  ethical  motive.  The  economic 
motive  is  the  desire  for  a  particular  satisfaction  of  a  particu- 
lar organ,  in  a  particular  way,  at  a  particular  time.  The 
ethical  motive  is  the  desire  for  the  varied  satisfaction  of  the 
entire  organism  through  continuing  time. 

This  account  of  the  subject  is,  of  course,  merely  physio- 
logical ;    but   I    suppose   that  no  modern  psychologist  will 


20  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

object  to  discovering  that  even  ethical  phenomena  have  their 
origin  in  physiological  processes.  Let  us,  however,  turn 
to  the  psychological  aspect.  A  sharp  organic  craving  for 
a  particular  satisfaction  always  receives  preferential  atten- 
tion in  consciousness,  and  preferential  attention  is  likely 
to  be  unduly  continued,  and  therefore  to  cause  excessive 
indulgence.  A  mere  organic  craving  would  diminish  as  the 
point  of  satiety  was  approached.  The  least  intelligent  ani- 
mals are  less  likely  than  man  to  carry  any  particular  form 
of  consumption  or  activity  to  excess.  It  is,  therefore,  even 
more  true  of  man  than  of  the  lower  animals  that  the  hunger 
and  protest  of  neglected  organs  must  take  possession  of 
consciousness  before  the  course  of  consumption  or  of  activity 
can  be  diverted  into  new  channels.  In  other  words,  the 
ethical  motive  plays  psychologically  a  larger  part  in  beings 
having  the  greater  power  of  attention,  and  especially  of  atten- 
tion coloured  by  imagination. 

In  more  technical  terms,  then,  the  economic  motive  is  the 
sum  of  those  normal  desires  to  which,  at  any  given  moment, 
we  are  giving  a  preferential  attention.  The  ethical  motive 
is  the  sum  of  those  normal  desires  which,  at  the  same  given 
moment,  we  are  denying  attention  or  forcing  out  of  con- 
sciousness by  neglect,  but  which  will  presently  assert  them- 
selves strongly  enough  to  divert  attention. 

Strong  confirmation  of  the  truth  of  this  analysis  is  afforded 
by  the  popular  view  of  that  class  of  economic  activities  which 
is  most  remotely  and  indirectly  related  to  the  immediate 
satisfaction  of  particular  wants.  If  the  foregoing  reasoning 
is  sound,  the  prudent  and  enterprising  man,  in  laying  by  a 
portion  of  his  income,  converting  savings  into  working  capital, 
energetically  improving  new  conditions,  and  organizing  in- 
dustrial methods,  is  acting  from  mixed  motives.  He  is 
moved  partly  by  economic,  but  partly,  also,  by  powerful 
ethical  desires.  It  is  therefore  interesting  to  remember  that 
these  forms  of  industrial  activity  have  always  been  regarded 
as  no  less  ethical  than  economic.  Saving,  frugality,  thrift, 
have,  from  immemorial  time,  been  inculcated  as  duties.  In 
other  words,  when  economy  broadens  out  into  a  provision 


THE  ETHICAL   MOTIVE  21 

for  the  expansion  and  the  future  development  of  life,  eco- 
nomic activity  merges  into  ethical  conduct. 

In  this  broad  distinction  between  economic  and  ethical 
motives,  I  think  we  may  discern  the  ground  of  a  persistent 
dissatisfaction  with  utilitarian  ethics.  The  common  mind 
does  not  to  any  great  extent  think  of  pleasure  in  general 
terms.  The  average  man  thinks  of  pleasure  concretely  and 
specifically,  in  terms  of  particular  satisfactions.  Duty  or 
right,  on  the  contrary,  the  average  man  thinks  of  vaguely, 
as  something  indefinable  imposed  upon  him  by  a  mass  of 
feelings  which  he  cannot  analyze  and  does  not  understand, 
but  which  constrain  him  to  inhibit  specific  desires  and 
to  deny  himself  particular  enjoyments.  The  common 
mind,  therefore,  associates  self-denial  rather  than  pleasure 
with  organic  well-being  and  with  a  continuous  development 
of  either  the  bodily  or  the  mental  nature.  The  end  to  which 
the  acts  of  the  ordinary  individual  are  adjusted  is  a  vaguely 
conceived  "welfare"  or  "salvation."  It  is  only  the  culti- 
vated mind  that  can  distinctly  picture  to  itself  a  greater 
pleasure,  a  deeper  happiness,  as  the  concomitant  of  a  larger 
and  sounder  life.  Consequently,  the  common  mind  always 
shows  a  strong  antipathy  to  systems  of  ethics  which  make 
pleasure  the  end  of  moral  action.  Yet  objectors  have  sel- 
dom been  able  to  meet  the  utilitarian  argument.  In  other 
words,  it  has  been  felt,  rather  than  clearly  seen,  that  between 
economics  and  ethics  there  is  a  distinction  which  should 
be  discovered  ;  and  that  there  must  be  something  wrong 
about  an  ethical  theory  that  calls  both  motives  by  the  same 
name. 

Another  and  vastly  more  important  phase  of  popular  think- 
ing is  similarly  explained  by  the  foregoing  account  of  the 
ethical  motive.  When  we  have  discovered  that  the  ethical 
motive  arises  as  a  reaction  of  the  organism  upon  the  organ, 
of  vague  feelings  en  masse  upon  specific  feeling,  we  have 
discerned  the  real  source  of  moral  authority  and  the  origin 
of  that  half-superstitious  conception  of  authority  which-^'Still 
holds  the  common  mind  in  dumb  distrust  of  reason.  The 
mass  of  mankind  thinks  of  authority  as  something  so  abso- 


22  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

lutely  different  from  reason  that  it  may  oppose  reason.  The 
mass  of  mankind  also  thinks  of  moral  conduct  as  a  course  of 
action  which  is  prescribed  by  authority ;  while  it  thinks  of 
economic  activity  as  being  indicated  and  guided  by  reason. 
The  explanation  is  not  difficult  to  find,  if  there  is  a  real  and 
great  difference  between  the  economic  and  the  ethical  motive. 
By  authority  the  average  man  means  a  power  which  con- 
strains his  will  without  his  knowing  or  being  able  to  find 
out  why.  By  reason  he  means  a  knowing  why.  Now  it  is 
perfectly  clear  that,  in  pursuing  economic  ends,  the  average 
man  thinks  that  he  knows  why  he  does  this  or  that.  He  acts 
in  a  particular  way  because  specific,  clearly  apprehended  wants 
clamour  for  satisfaction.  It  is  not  less  clear  that,  in  obeying 
what  he  regards  as  an  ethical  mandate,  the  average  man  acts 
without  knowing  why.  A  mass  of  vague  feelings  and  ideas 
arises  within  his  consciousness  in  protest  against  certain  in- 
dulgences, or  constraining  him  to  something  which  he  feels  to 
be  a  duty,  although  he  cannot  possibly  explain  to  himself  why 
he  feels  or  calls  it  duty.  That  is  to  say,  the  average  man  can 
clearly  apprehend  the  economic  motive  ;  he  knows,  or  thinks 
he  knows,  the  whys  and  the  wherefores  of  his  economic  life  ; 
and  therefore  he  thinks  that  the  economic  life  lies  within  the 
domain  of  reason.  The  average  man  cannot  clearly  appre- 
hend the  ethical  motive,  analyze  it  into  its  elements,  or  dis- 
cover its  origins.  He  does  not  know  why  he  is  moral ;  yet 
he  feels  himself  constrained  to  try  to  be  moral.  Therefore 
he  believes  that  morality  is  imposed  upon  him  by  authority  — 
in  other  words,  by  a  power  that  constrains  his  will  without  re- 
vealing to  him  how  or  why ;  and  he  regards  with  distrust  any 
intrusion  of  reason  into  the  ethical  domain.  So  conceiving 
of  reason  and  authority,  and  having  within  his  own  conscious- 
ness an  experimental  acquaintance  with  authority,  the  aver- 
age man  easily  passes  from  a  deference  to  the  moral  authority 
that  is  internally  known,  to  a  reverence  for  any  external 
authority  that  is  impressively  asserted,  and  allows  himself  to 
regard  the  external  authority  as,  like  the  moral  authority 
within  himself,  superior  to  reason. 

Has  this  discrimination  of  the  ethical  from  the  economic 


THE  ETHICAL  MOTIVE  23 

motive  a  practical  value,  or  is  it  of  merely  theoretical  interest  ? 
It  has,  I  think,  a  twofold  practical  value. 

First,  if  a  truthful  account  has  been  given  of  the  relations 
which  the  common  notion  of  authority  bears  to  the  ethical 
motive,  the  importance  of  cultivating  rationalistic  habits  of 
thought  is  strongly  emphasized.  Moral  authority  is  real;  and, 
in  a  sense,  it  is  independent  of  reason.  It  is  deeper,  more 
fundamental,  more  nearly  primitive  as  a  part  of  human  con- 
sciousness than  reason  is  ;  but  it  is  not  independent  of  organic 
conditions,  and  therefore  is  not  apart '  from  or  in  any  way 
independent  of  the  complex  processes  of  natural  causation. 
Reason  alone  can  enable  man  to  perceive  the  true  nature  and 
origin  of  moral  authority,  and  thereby  to  avoid  the  dangers  to 
human  well-being  that  still  linger  in  the  popular  confusion  of 
moral  with  external  or  supposedly  supernatural  authority. 
Only  through  the  rationalistic  habit  of  mind  can  men  come  to 
understand  how  important  it  is,  on  the  one  hand,  to  assert  the 
rightful  supremacy  of  moral  authority,  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
to  deny  the  rightfulness  of  any  external  authority  other  than  a 
common  or  social  consciousness  of  the  reality  and  rightfulness 
of  the  moral  authority  in  each  individual.  It  is,  therefore,  of 
supreme  importance  to  continue  without  quarter  to  fight  that 
obscurantism  which  is  still  endeavouring  to  keep  the  control 
of  thought  and  conduct  within  the  hands  of  those  who  assume 
to  rule  the  spiritual  domain  by  right  of  divine  anointment. 

The  discrimination  of  the  ethical  from  the  economic  motive 
has,  I  think,  secondly,  a  practical  value  because  it  enables 
us  to  reaffirm  with  renewed  assurance  certain  rules  for  the 
strengthening  of  ethical  impulses  which  have  long  been 
recognized,  but  which  have  never  been  regarded  as  authorita- 
tive. If  they  follow  legitimately  as  deductions  from  the  prin- 
ciple which  has  here  been  laid  down,  their  authority  is  clear. 

Ethical  motives,  as  all  recognize,  may  be  strengthened  both 
by  teaching  and  by  activity.  If  I  have  rightly  described  the 
ethical  motive,  it  is  possible  to  see  with  much  clearness  what 
teaching  and  what  activity  are  necessary  for  ethical  culture, 
and  to  see,  also,  the  order  in  which  principles  are  to  be  empha- 
sized and  activities  are  to  be  encouraged. 


24  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

Ethical  motives,  then,  are  to  be  strengthened,  first,  by  re- 
affirming the  doctrine,  older  even  than  any  teaching  of  the 
Greeks,  that  the  efficient  cause  of  morality  is  manly  and 
womanly  power,  —  is  that  vitality  which,  by  its  own  insis- 
tence, creates  a  demand  for  expansion  and  variation  of  life. 
The  ethical  motive,  as  we  have  seen,  springs  from  physiolog- 
ical conditions ;  and,  as  power,  it  is  derived  from  vitality. 
To  neglect  bodily  development,  therefore,  is  not  merely  to  do 
wrong  in  a  sense  which  all  intelligent  persons  now  recognize, 
by  impairing  the  health  that  is  in  itself  a  good,  but  in  the 
much  deeper  sense  of  impairing  the  very  springs  of  moral 
conduct. 

The  ethical  motive  may  be  strengthened,  secondly,  by  rec- 
ognizing and  teaching  that  varied  experiences  of  pleasure, 
within  limits  of  moderation,  are  essential  to  the  existence  of 
a  consciously  moral  motive  and  a  moral  life.  The  organism 
which  has  had  repeated  experiences  of  many  different  kinds 
of  enjoyment,  associated  with  the  normal  activity  of  every 
organ,  is  the  one  that  reacts  most  promptly  and  vigorously 
against  any  sort  of  excess  or  any  over-indulgence  in  a  par- 
ticular pleasure.  The  hedonists  are  absolutely  right  in  their 
fundamental  contention.  Morality  without  pleasure  of  some 
kind  or  composition  is  unthinkable.  As  certainly  as  specific 
pleasures  are  the  springs  of  economic  action,  so  certainly  are 
varied,  measured,  and  combined  pleasures  the  springs  of  moral 
action.  The  task  of  moral  philosophy  is  not  to  condemn 
pleasure  ;  it  is  rather  to  show  how  differently  pleasures  are 
combined  and  presented  in  consciousness,  when  they  enter 
into  the  moral  motive,  than  when  they  incite  economic  effort. 
We  must  frankly  admit  the  essential  goodness  of  pleasure, 
and  deny  that  asceticism  is  in  any  sense  ethical. 

The  ethical  motive  may  be  strengthened,  thirdly,  by  re- 
affirming that  excess  is  the  fundamental  wrong.  By  permit- 
ting attention  to  dwell  too  long  or  too  exclusively  upon  any 
one  object  of  desire,  we  in  some  measure  destroy  the  power 
of  other  desires,  and  not  only  dwarf  our  lives,  but  impair  the 
moral  motive.  And  this  is  just  as  true  when  our  excesses 
are  on  the  side  of  those  things  that  are  conventionally  called 


THE  ETHICAL  MOTIVE  25 

"virtues,"  as  when  they  are  on  the  side  of  pleasures  that 
public  opinion  condemns.  In  other  words,  the  over-zealous 
Puritan,  the  moral  or  religious  fanatic,  the  uncompromising 
political  radical,  when  they  refuse  to  recognize  any  interest 
in  life  other  than  the  ones  to  which  they  are  devoted,  are,  in 
the  light  of  the  physiological  and  psychological  analysis  which 
has  been  presented,  as  immoral  as  the  drunkard  and  the  lib- 
ertine. If  this  analysis  is  true,  the  middle  way,  which  Aris- 
totle described  as  the  only  true  road  of  virtue,  is  indeed 
such ;  and  no  one  can  wander  from  it  to  the  right  hand  any 
more  than  to  the  left,  without  falling  into  wrong. 

The  ethical  motive  is  to  be  strengthened,  fourthly,  by 
teaching  that  next  to  moderation  is  the  importance  of  culti- 
vating a  varied  outlook  and  sympathy,  and  of  cherishing 
ideals  as  an  intellectual  duty. 

This  is  an  age  of  specialization  and  of  commercial  stand- 
ards. Men  judge  one  another  by  their  business  success,  and 
business  brings  a  fearful  pressure  upon  every  man  to  devote 
his  entire  energy  to  some  one  line  of  activity  in  which  he  can 
hope  to  attain  preeminence.  This  is,  in  itself,  a  plain  viola- 
tion of  moral  law;  and  there  is  nothing  mysterious  in  the  un- 
dermining of  personal  and  public  integrity  through  the 
insidious  action  of  an  excessive  commercialism.  That  the 
business  man  who  devotes  his  entire  energy  and  thought  to 
business  matters  should  look  without  horror  upon  the  con- 
trol of  politics  and  law  by  an  unscrupulous  use  of  money  is 
no  occasion  for  surprise.  This  is  a  normal  and  necessary  con- 
sequence of  the  conditions  supposed.  Unhappily,  our  edu- 
cational policy,  which  should  be  the  great  corrective  of  such 
tendencies,  has  been  corrupted  and  made  to  encourage  the 
very  evils  that  education  should  prevent.  We  have  encour- 
aged specialization,  which  is  a  proper  thing  to  do  just  to  the 
extent  that  by  specialization  we  mean  thoroughness,  minute 
and  exact  knowledge  within  a  certain  limited  field.  But  spe- 
cialization in  this  sense  need  not  be,  and  should  not  be,  at  the 
expense  of  a  broad  outlook  upon  the  world  and  a  correlative 
strengthening  of  varied  sympathies.  Education  should  make 
the  average  man  see  that  business  interests  are  but  one  small 


26  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

part  of  life,  and  that  "  citizenship  "  is  a  word  of  larger  import 
than  "trade."  It  should  make  him  feel  a  strong  sympathy 
with  every  spontaneous  popular  movement.  He  should  care 
about  the  well-being  of  other  classes  than  the  one  to  which 
lie  belongs.  He  should  be  interested  in  the  progressive 
civilization  of  other  nations  than  his  own.  Above  all, 
he  should  be  interested  in  the  history  and  development  of 
thought,  in  the  broadening  of  the  mental  horizon  of  the  race, 
and  in  the  expression  of  its  struggles  and  aspirations  in  the 
enduring  forms  of  literature  and  art.  If  the  ethical  motive 
is  what  I  have  here  described  it  as  being,  then  it  is  the  duty 
of  all  teachers  of  morality  to  insist  that  any  man  who  know- 
ingly neglects  to  cultivate  throughout  his  business  or  profes- 
sional life  some  interest  or  interests  that  have  no  direct 
relation  to  his  business  or  profession,  who  intentionally  or 
by  negligence  permits  his  sympathies  with  all  mankind  and 
with  the  progress  of  science  and  art  to  die,  is  an  immoral 
man,  as  much  to  be  condemned  by  a  sound  public  opinion  as 
one  who  transgresses  the  conventional  code  of  right  doing. 

Moreover,  the  expansion  of  thought  and  sympathy  must 
ideally  extend  into  future  time.  The  evolution  of  social 
relations  is  not  ended,  and  the  development  of  the  human 
mind  is  not  complete.  The  ethical  motive  does  not  merely 
constrain  us  to  act  with  reference  to  the  many-sidedness  of 
life  ;  it  constrains  us  to  act  also  with  reference  to  the  further 
development  of  life.  It  is,  therefore,  our  duty  to  form  and 
to  cherish  ideals.  We  must  believe  that  many  things  can 
be  made  better  than  tliey  are  at  present,  and  that  life  in 
many  ways  can  be  made  more  desirable.  But  these  ideals 
must  not  be  narrow,  exclusive,  or  grotesquely  dispropor- 
tioned  to  one  another,  or  to  the  world  of  fact.  They  must 
be  brought  into  harmony,  order,  and  measure.  In  fine,  tlie 
ethical  motive  must  be  both  strengtliened  and  directed  by  re- 
affirming the  Platonic  doctrine  of  correlation,  subordination, 
and  proportion  in  all  tliat  we  think  and  in  all  that  we  do. 


Ill 

THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  SOCIETY 


Ill 

THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  SOCIETY 

The  attempt  to  construct  a  science  of  society  by  means  of 
biological  analogies  has  been  abandoned  by  all  serious  inves- 
tigators of  social  phenomena.  It  was  one  of  those  misdi- 
rected efforts  that  must  be  looked  upon  as  inevitable  in  the 
development  of  any  branch  of  knowledge.  The  notion  of  a 
universal  evolution  compelled  those  who  accepted  it  to  try 
to  find  some  other  explanation  of  our  social  relations  than 
that  dogma  of  an  original  covenant  which  had  come  down  to 
us  from  Hobbes  and  Locke.  Biology  supplied  most  of  the 
facts  and  ideas  of  which  the  evolutionary  thought  was  con- 
structed ;  and  naturally,  therefore,  biological  conceptions 
were  first  made  use  of  in  formal  sociology.  At  present, 
however,  all  serious  work  in  sociology  starts  from  psycho- 
logical data,  and  proceeds  by  a  combination  of  psychological 
with  statistical  and  historical  methods. 

Psychology  has  had  a  development  somewhat  similar. 
Beginning  with  purely  metaphysical  terms  and  reasonings, 
it  became  a  natural  science  with  the  advent  of  evolutionary 
thought,  and  for  a  long  time  drew  its  best  materials  and  its 
most  fruitful  hypotheses  from  physiological  data.  Physio- 
logical psychology  was  then  regarded  as  the  only  psychology 
very  well  worth  attention.  George  Henry  Lewes  was  one  of 
the  first  writers  to  argue,  as  he  did  with  great  force  and 
brilliancy  in  the  "Problems  of  Life  and  Mind,"  that  the 
physiological  explanations  of  mind  must  be  supplemented  by 
explanations  drawn  from  the  study  of  society.  At  the  pres- 
ent time,  the  social  interpretation  of  mental  development  is 
an  important  part  of  psychological  activity. 

Psychological  and  sociological   investigations   have   thus 

29 


30  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

converged  upon  certain  common  problems,  namely  ;  The 
problem  of  the  social  nature  of  the  individual  mind,  and  the 
problem  of  the  psychical  nature  of  social  relations.  Any 
new  contribution  to  either  psychology  or  sociology  is  likely 
to  be  found  also  a  contribution  to  the  other,  and  we  may 
look  in  the  near  future  for  a  number  of  books  of  which  it 
will  be  difficult  to  say  whether  they  are  primarily  works  on 
psychology  or  on  sociology. 

This  is  eminently  true  of  Professor  Mark  Baldwin's 
"  Social  and  Ethical  Interpretations,"  the  second  volume 
of  his  important  work  on  "  Mental  Development."  The  first 
volume,  on  "  Methods  and  Processes,"  was  definitely  a  study 
in  psychology.  The  problem  therein  dealt  with  was  that  of 
mental  development  through  the  interaction  of  physical 
and  social  causes,  and  the  importance  of  social  factors  was 
emphasized  throughout.  In  the  volume  on  "  Social  and 
Ethical  Interpretations,"  we  again  find  the  same  problem: 
the  development  of  the  individual  mind  through  its  social 
relations  and  activities  is  further  considered.  In  this  vol- 
ume, however,  the  opposite  problem  also  is  introduced. 
The  development  of  social  relations  and  activities  through 
the  outgoing  of  the  individual  is  discussed,  and  the  nature 
of  society  is  subjected  to  a  critical  examination.  A  division 
of  the  volume  into  two  books  corresponds  to  the  above  dis- 
tinction between  the  problems  dealt  with.  Book  I  is  a 
study  of  the  person,  public  and  private  ;  Book  II  is  a  study 
of  society.  The  four  formal  parts  of  Book  I  deal  respec- 
tively with  the  imitative  person,  the  inventive  person,  the 
person's  equipment,  and  the  person's  sanctions.  The  three 
formal  parts  of  Book  II  deal  respectively  with  the  person 
in  action,  social  organization,  and  practical  conclusions. 

In  the  present  article  I  shall  not  attempt  to  review  Pro- 
fessor Baldwin's  treatment  of  all  these  subjects,  or  even 
to  summarize  his  conclusions:  I  shall  examine  only  the 
two  conceptions  that  are  of  chief  interest  to  the  sociologist. 
These,  of  course,  are  the  conception  of  the  social  natui-e  of 
the  self,  or  individual  personality,  and  the  conception  of  the 
psychic  nature  of  society. 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  SOCIETY  31 

Psychology,  some  time  ago,  got  beyond  the  conundrum  — 

"  Should  I  be  I,  or  should  I  be 
One-tenth  another  and  nine-tenths  me," 

if  my  great-grandmother  had  married  another  suitor?  It 
seems  to  be  agreed  on  all  hands  that  in  any  case  the  ego  is 
nine-tenths  or  more  somebody  else.  That  is  to  say,  one's 
individual  personality  is  for  the  most  part  a  product  of 
one's  intercourse  with  other  personalities.  Professor  Bald- 
win, as  readers  of  his  earlier  works  are  aware,  goes  even 
beyond  writers  like  Ribot  and  James  in  his  account  of  the 
composite  origin  of  the  self.  He  holds  that  not  only  does 
the  self  incorporate  elements  from  other  personalities,  so 
that,  at  any  given  time,  it  includes  thoughts  and  feelings 
derived  from  others,  and  acts  in  imitation  of  the  conduct 
of  others,  but  also  that  its  very  thought  of  itself  is  merely 
one  pole  of  a  consciousness  "  of  a  sense  of  personality  gener- 
ally," the  other  pole  of  which  is  the  thought  of  some  other 
person  or  alter.  This  comprehensive  sense  of  personality 
at  first  is  merely  projective  —  to  use  Professor  Baldwin's 
term  :  it  is  a  mass  of  more  or  less  vague  impressions  re- 
ceived from  persons  who  are  encountered  and  observed.  It 
is  secondly  subjective  :  the  ego,  by  its  imitations  of  observed 
persons,  incorporates  their  peculiarities  to  some  extent  in 
itself.  It  is  thirdly  ejective :  ^  the  self  interprets  observed 
persons  in  terms  of  its  own  feelings,  thoughts,  and  habits. 

iThe  term  "eject"  was  first  used  by  William  Kingdon  Clifford  in  a 
remarkable  article,  "On  the  Xature  of  Things  in  Themselves,"  which  ap- 
peared in  Mind,  in  January,  1878.  Clifford's  own  definition  of  the  word  as 
there  given  was  as  follows :  "  When  I  come  to  the  conclusion  that  you  are 
conscious,  and  that  there  are  objects  in  your  consciousness  similar  to  those 
in  mine,  I  am  not  inferring  any  actual  or  possible  feelings  of  my  own,  but 
your  feelings,  which  are  not,  and  cannot  by  any  possibility  become,  objects 
in  my  consciousness.  .  .  .  But  the  inferred  existence  of  your  feelings,'  of 
objective  groupings  among  them  similar  to  those  among  my  feelings,  and 
of  a  subjective  order  in  many  respects  analogous  to  my  own, — these  inferred 
existences  are  in  the  very  act  of  inference  thrown  out  of  my  conscious- 
ness, recognized  as  outside  of  it,  as  not  being  a  part  of  me.  I  propose, 
accordingly,  to  call  these  inferred  existences  ejects,  things  thrown  out  of 
my  consciousness,  to  distinguish  them  from  objects,  things  presented  in  my 
consciousness,  phenomena." 


32  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

This  give  and  take  between  the  individual  and  his  fellows 
Professor  Baldwin  calls  "  the  dialectic  of  personal  growth  " ; 
and  he  says  it  may  be  read  thus  :  "  My  thought  of  self  is  in 
the  main,  as  to  its  character  as  a  personal  self,  filled  up  with 
my  thought  of  others,  distributed  variously  as  individuals ; 
and  my  thought  of  others,  as  persons,  is  mainly  filled  up  with 
myself.  In  other  words,  but  for  certain  minor  distinctions 
in  the  filling,  and  for  certain  compelling  distinctions  between 
that  which  is  immediate  and  that  which  is  objective,  the  ego 
and  the  alter  are  to  our  thought  one  and  the  same  thing." 
Thus  the  individual  is  always  a  socius,  and  not  merely  be- 
cause, after  reaching  adult  life,  the  necessity  of  cooperating 
with  his  fellow-men  compels  him  to  adapt  himself  to  them 
and  to  modify  an  original  egoism  by  the  cultivation  of  social 
habits,  but  because,  from  his  earliest  infancy,  his  own  devel- 
opment as  a  self-conscious  person  has  been  incorporating 
social  elements  and  creating  within  himself  a  social,  no  less 
than  an  individual,  point  of  view. 

When  adult  life  is  reached,  however,  the  process  does  not 
cease.  The  dialectic  of  personal  growth  continues  to  deter- 
mine all  our  thinking,  our  social  no  less  than  our  individual 
judgments  :  that  is  to  say,  in  arriving  at  any  judgment, 
we  incorporate  in  our  thought  the  judgments  of  other  men  ; 
and  we  interpret  the  judgments  of  other  men  by  our  own. 

It  follows  that  all  of  those  social  relations  and  policies 
which  are  products  of  reflection,  no  less  than  of  feeling,  are 
determined  by  the  "  dialectic  of  personal  growth,"  and  that, 
like  judgments  of  things  in  general,  in  the  thought  of  indi- 
viduals, they  are  highly  composite  products  of  subjective  and 
ejective  views  of  the  same  phenomena. 

Approaching  the  study  of  society  in  this  way,  Professor 
Baldwin  is  naturally  led  to  discriminate  between  the  sub- 
stance, content,  stuff,  or  material  of  society,  and  the  func- 
tional method  or  process  of  organization  of  the  social  material. 
He  criticises  the  sociologists  for  not  having  definitely  enough 
discriminated  these  two  problems.  Consistently  with  his 
conception  of  our  social  judgments,  he  thus  describes  the 
social   substance,  or   content :    "  The   matter   of   social   or- 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  SOCIETY  33 

ganization  consists  of  thoughts  ;  by  which  is  meant  all  sorts 
of  intellectual  states,  such  as  imagination,  knowledges  and 
informations."  This  "matter,"  he  thinks,  is  found  only  in 
human  groups,  which  alone,  therefore,  can  be  called  societies. 
Animal  communities  he  would  call  "  companies."  The  func- 
tional method  or  process  of  organization  of  the  social  material 
he  is  satisfied  to  find  in  the  process  of  imitation  which  is  sub- 
jectively contained  in  the  "  dialectic  of  personal  growth," 
and  which  has  been  objectively  described,  in  sociological 
terms,  by  M.  Tarde.  Social  evolution  he  derives  from  the 
interaction  of  the  individual  as  a  particularizing  force  and 
society  as  a  generalizing  force.  All  solidarity  and  conserva- 
tion are  due  to  the  generalizing  force  ;  all  variation  to  the 
particularizing  force.  Progress  is  a  dialectic  of  give  and 
take  between  these  two  elements. 

In  examining  these  conceptions,  I  shall  admit  their  general 
or  substantial  truth,  and  inquire  only  whether  they  need 
modification,  limitation,  or  expansion.  Do  they  sufficiently 
and  precisely  express  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth  ? 

Is  the  thought  of  self  quite  so  largely  a  product  of  the 
social  relation  as  Professor  Baldwin  represents  ?  Is  it  accu- 
rate to  say  that  "  my  thought  of  self  is,  in  the  main,  filled 
up  with  my  thought  of  others,"  even  if  we  admit  "  minor 
distinctions  in  the  filling  "  and  "  certain  compelling  distinc- 
tions between  that  which  is  immediate  and  that  which  is 
objective  "  ?  What  are  these  compelling  distinctions  of  the 
immediate  ?  Obviously,  they  are  those  presentations  in 
consciousness  which  arise  from  organic  conditions  rather 
than  from  social  relations.  Hunger  is  a  state  of  conscious- 
ness which  can  subvert  the  entire  product  of  the  "  dialectic 
of  personal  growth  "  ;  and  the  sociologist  is  unable  to  lose 
sight  of  the  fact  that,  when  men  who  have  been  developed 
by  that  dialectic  into  socii  are  confronted  by  starvation,  they 
are  liable  to  have  thoughts  of  self  which  can  hardly  be  con- 
strued as  filled  up  mainly  with  thoughts  of  others,  unless  he 
is  prepared  to  accept  a  cannibal's  definition  of  "  others."  The 
sociologist,  then,  must  continue  to  think  of  the  individual  as 


34  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

being  both  an  ego  and  a  socius,  and  yet  as  being  at  all  times 
more  ego  than  socius. 

The  importance  of  this  modification  of  Professor  Baldwin's 
formula  is  chiefly  for  purposes  of  economic  theory.  No  econo- 
mist will  be  able  to  accept  Professor  Baldwin's  contention 
that  it  is  illegitimate  to  "  endeavour  to  reach  a  theory  of  value 
based  on  a  calculus  of  the  desire  of  one  individual  to  gratify 
his  individual  wants,  multiplied  into  the  number  of  such  in- 
dividuals." The  truth  is,  that,  for  most  purposes  of  economic 
theory,  this  procedure  is  not  only  legitimate,  but  is  the  only 
one  psychologically  possible.  The  compelling  wants  that 
political  economy  has  chiefly  to  consider  are  those  which 
arise  from  the  organic  nature  and  which,  therefore,  magnify 
the  ego  at  the  expense  of  the  socius. 

The  modification  is  necessary  also  for  purposes  of  ethical 
theory.  Professor  Baldwin,  if  I  rightly  understand  him, 
derives  all  ethical  phenomena  from  social  relations.  This  I 
believe  to  be  an  error.  Economic  motives  are  specific  crav- 
ings of  particular  organs  or  grouj)s  of  organs.  Complete 
satisfaction  of  economic  wants  may  deprive  other  organs  of 
their  due  satisfaction.  The  protest  of  the  neglected  organs 
and  the  hunger  of  the  entire  organism  for  integral  satisfac- 
tion is,  I  believe,  the  original  source  of  all  ethical  motive, 
which,  therefore,  is  indefinitely  developed  by,  but  not  initi- 
ated in,  the  "dialectic  of  personal  growth."  ^ 

It  seems  probable,  then,  that  in  "  the  dialectic  of  personal 
growth,"  the  original  ego  with  which  the  dialectic  starts, 
plays  throughout  a  controlling  part ;  and  that,  after  all, 
the  process  of  developing  a  socius  is  one  which  essentially 
consists  in  modifying,  by  means  of  social  relations  and  activi- 
ties, an  originally  independent  self. 

This  modification,  however,  is  undoubtedly  produced  by 
the  process  of  give  and  take  between  ego  and  alter.  The 
question,  then,  that  I  wish  next  to  raise  is.  Is  the  give  and 
take,  in  which  the  ego  engages,  carried  on  indiscriminately 
with  any  alter,  or  is  there,  from  the  very  beginning  of  con- 

1  This  subject  has  already  been  considered  at  greater  length,  in  the  pre- 
ceding article  ou  "The  Ethical  Motive." 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  SOCIETY  35 

scious  life,  a  tendency  to  discriminate  between  one  and 
another  alter,  and  to  limit  the  conditions  of  personal  growth 
by  that  state  of  consciousness  which  may  be  described  as  a 
consciousness  of  " similars  "  or  of  "kind."  Scattered  through- 
out Professor  Baldwin's  writings  are  many  intimations  that 
he  has  suspected,  or  perhaps  has  even  been  definitely  aware 
of,  such  limitations.  I  do  not  find,  however,  that  he  has 
anywhere  endeavoured  to  formulate  them  or  to  bring  them 
systematically  within  the  propositions  of  his  dialectic. 

What,  then,  are  some  of  the  inquiries  which  should  be 
made  in  regard  to  these  limitations  ? 

First,  I  think  that  we  should  inquire  whether,  long  before 
any  discriminations  of  kind  have  become  possible,  a  prepara- 
tion for  them  and  a  tendency  toward  them  is  made  in  con- 
scious experience.  Of  the  sensations  which  first  arise  in 
consciousness,  some  are  received  from  the  bodily  organism 
which  the  self  inhabits ;  some  are  received  from  similar 
bodily  organisms,  and  some  are  received  from  wholly  unlike 
objects  in  the  external  world.  Now  we  know  that  many 
sensations  received  from  self  are  so  nearly  like  sensations 
received  from  like  selves  that,  merely  as  sensations,  they  can 
be  distinguished  only  with  difficulty.  If,  for  example,  I 
strike  with  my  voice  a  certain  note  of  the  musical  scale, 
and  another  person  a  moment  after  strikes  the  same  note 
with  his  voice,  my  auditory  sensations  in  the  two  cases 
will  be  very  nearly  alike.  If  I  cry  out  in  pain,  and  then 
hear  another  man  like  myself  cry  out  in  pain,  my  audi- 
tory sensations  will  be  nearly  alike  ;  but  if  I  hear  a  dog 
bark,  the  sensation  will  be  different  from  that  which  I  have 
received  from  my  own  voice.  If  I  walk  with  my  friend 
down  the  street,  and  happen  to  notice  the  motion  of  my 
feet  as  I  take  successive  steps,  and  then  to  notice  the  mo- 
tion of  my  friend's  feet,  the  visual  sensations,  in  these  two 
cases,  will  be  closely  alike  ;  but  if  I  happen  to  notice  the 
trotting  of  a  horse  that  is  being  driven  by  me,  the  visual 
sensation  will  be  different  from  that  which  I  have  received 
in  observing  my  own  steps.  If  I  stroke  the  back  of  my 
hand,  and  then  stroke  the  back  of  my  friend's  hand,  I  shall 


36  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

receive  tactual  sensations  that  are  closely  alike ;  but  if  I  then 
stroke  the  fur  of  a  cat  or  the  mane  of  a  horse,  or  touch  the 
paw  of  a  cat  or  the  hoof  of  a  horse,  I  shall  receive  sensations 
very  different  from  those  received  from  the  back  of  my  hand. 
It  therefore  appears  that  before  there  is  any  power  to  make 
discriminations  of  any  kind,  even  to  think  of  differences  of 
sensation,  sensations  themselves  fall  into  different  groupings. 
At  the  very  beginning  of  conscious  life,  certain  elements 
which  are  to  enter  into  a  consciousness  of  kind  begin  to 
appear  in  experience.  They  consist  of  like  sensations  re- 
ceived from  self  and  from  others  who  resemble  self. 

On  the  basis  of  these  experiences  there  are  developed  others 
that  call  for  investigation  from  the  same  point  of  view.  When 
suggestion  begins  to  play  an  important  part  in  mental  life, 
are  suggestions  from  persons  very  unlike  self  equally  effica- 
cious with  suggestions  from  persons  nearly  like  self  ?  There 
is  here  a  great  field  for  investigation.  A  thousand  familiar 
observations  strongly  indicate  the  superiority  of  suggestions 
that  come  from  those  whose  neural  organization  resembles 
that  of  the  person  affected.  Why,  for  example,  does 
Maudsley  venture  to  say,  without  offering  the  slightest 
proof,  that,  while  men  are  as  liable  as  silly  sheep  to  fall 
into  panic  when  they  see  panic  among  their  fellows,  they 
are  not  similarly  liable  when  they  perceive  panic  among 
sheep?  Obviously,  because  facts  of  this  general  character 
are  so  familiar  that  no  one  would  think  of  questioning 
them.  In  like  manner,  a  child  who  objects  to  performing 
a  certain  task  which  his  father  asks  him  to  do,  will  do  it 
without  hesitation  if  he  sees  other  boys  in  the  street  en- 
gaged in  the  same  work.  Phenomena  like  these,  of  course, 
have  tlieir  origin  in  a  like  responsiveness  of  like  organisms 
to  the  same  stimulus. 

A  third  class  of  experiences  and  activities,  which  are 
ultimately  to  enter  into  a  consciousness  of  kind,  and  are 
already  very  probably  dominating  "  the  dialectic  of  personal 
growth,"  are  imitations.  Here,  also,  there  is  room  for  exact 
investigation ;  but  we  may  predict  at  the  outset  that  investi- 
gation will  verify  the  common  opinion  that  we  chiefly  imitate 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  SOCIETY  37 

our  similars.  The  equally  familiar  fact  that  we  do  not  always 
do  so  is  of  immense  importance  for  the  theory  of  variation, 
invention,  and  originality.  And  this  theory,  I  believe,  is  not 
to  be  constructed  without  referring  back  to  the  truth  men- 
tioned above,  that  the  ego  is  at  all  times  the  original  and 
dominant  element  in  the  "dialectic  of  personal  growth."  I 
am  not  at  present  prepared  to  give  my  reasons,  but  I  expect 
that  it  will  be  shown  that  in  the  same  reaction  of  the  organ- 
ism upon  the  organ  which  is  the  source  of  ethical  motive,  will 
be  found  the  source  of  originality,  variation,  and  the  occa- 
sional imitation  of  those  who  differ  from,  rather  than  resem- 
ble, ourselves. 

The  factors  thus  far  considered,  —  namely,  like  responsive- 
ness of  like  organisms  to  the  same  stimulus,  like  sensations 
received  from  self  and  from  others  who  resemble  self,  a 
greater  responsiveness  to  suggestions  from  like  selves  than 
from  not-like  selves,  and  a  greater  readiness  to  imitate  like 
selves  than  to  imitate  not-like  selves,  —  together  make  up 
the  organic  sympathy  that  is  a  bond  of  union  in  those 
groups  of  animals  that  Professor  Baldwin  calls  companies, 
and  the  bond  of  union  of  men  who  act  together  impulsively 
rather  than  reflectively  —  the  bond,  in  short,  of  the  mob. 
It  is  certain  that  organic  sympathy  depends  on  organic 
likeness,  and  the  phenomena  that  have  been  named  above 
are  the  psychological  correlatives  of  organic  likeness. 

How  now  is  such  organic  sympathy  converted  into  a 
higher  or  reflective  sympathy?  The  true  answer,  I  think, 
is :  Through  the  mediation  of  that  perception  of  resemblance 
which  is  the  initial  stage  in  the  conversion  of  a  mere  sensa- 
tional experience  of  likeness  into  a  reflective  consciousness 
of  kind.  When  the  power  to  perceive  relations  and  to  make 
discriminations  arises,  the  perception  of  resemblances  and  of 
differences  among  one's  fellow-beings  becomes  an  all-impor- 
tant factor  in  the  further  development  of  social  relations  and 
in  the  " dialectic  of  personal  growth."  From  that  moment 
organic  sympathy  becomes  a  function  of  the  perception  of 
resemblance ;  and  sympathy  becomes,  to  a  certain  extent,  re- 
flective.    Even  in  mob  action  the  reaction  of  the  perception 


38  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

of  kind  may  be  seen  with  the  utmost  clearness.  When,  for 
example,  masses  of  men  simultaneously  respond  to  a  party  cry 
or  symbol,  the  action  for  the  moment  is  merely  a  like  respon- 
siveness to  the  same  stimulus.  An  instant  later,  when  each 
man  perceives  that,  in  this  respect,  his  fellow-beings  are  re- 
sembling himself  in  feeling  and  in  action,  his  own  emotion  is 
enormously  intensified.  It  is  this  which  gives  to  all  symbols 
and  shibboleths  their  tremendous  social  importance.  The 
phenomenon  has  been  very  well  described  in  the  concluding 
pages  of  Dr.  Boris  Sidis's  "Psychology  of  Suggestion." 

Let  us  pass,  now,  to  the  conception  of  the  psychical  stuff, 
or  substance,  of  society. 

Professor  Baldwin's  thesis,  as  we  have  seen,  is  that  "  the 
matter  of  social  organization  consists  of  thoughts,  all  kinds 
of  knowledges  and  informations."  He  thus  places  himself 
in  definite  opposition  to  those  writers  who  have  made  sym- 
pathy, or  any  kind  of  emotion,  the  psychological  stuff  of 
society.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  he  makes  a  sharp  distinc- 
tion between  animal  "  companies "  and  human  societies. 
Criticism  of  this  thesis  may  be  made  from  two  points  of  view: 
one,  the  historical,  supported  by  observations  from  animal 
communities  ;  the  other,  the  psychological,  supported  by 
those  analyses  of  the  relations  of  sympathy  and  perception 
which  I  have  sketched  above.  From  the  standpoint  of  the 
observer  of  animal  and  primitive  human  societies,  it  is  difficult, 
if  not  impossible,  to  establish  a  line  of  demarcation  between 
the  more  highly  organized  bands  of  animals,  like  troops  of 
monkeys,  or  herds  of  elephants,  or  bands  of  wild  horses,  and 
the  simplest  hordes  of  human  beings,  like  Bushmen  or  Austra- 
lian Blackfellows.  No  one  can  say  when,  in  the  development 
of  man  from  brute,  sympathy  ceased  to  be  the  chief  stuff  or  sub- 
stance of  the  social  relationship,  and  thoughts  in  the  form  of 
inventions  and  knowledges  began  to  assume  that  important 
place.  In  like  manner,  when  modern  human  society  is 
looked  at  from  the  psychological  view-point,  it  is  often  — 
indeed,  usually  —  impossible  to  say  whether  sympathy  or 
thought  predominates  in  the  intercerebral  action  of  the 
associatinfj  individuals.      Professor  Baldwin's  thesis  would 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  SOCIETY  39 

compel   him   to  maintain  that   the   same   individuals  are  a 

"  society  "  one  day  and  merely  a  "  company  "  another.  At 
one  time  they  are  thoughtful  and  self -controlled;  at  another 
time  they  are  an  audience  swept  by  emotion,  or  a  mob  given 
over  to  fury.  Shall  we,  then,  say  that  the  stuff  of  society  is 
thought  merely,  or  feeling  merely,  or  some  combination  of 
the  two  ?  Surely  the  last  of  these  possibilities  is  the  one 
that  is  most  consistent  both  with  evolutionary  hypotheses 
and  with  psychological  conclusions.  The  substance  of 
society  at  first  is  sympathy  and  instinct  mainly.  At  its  best 
(estate,  society  may  rise  to  a  level  where  thought  has  for  the 
moment  completely  subordinated  feeling.  But  usually,  and 
throughout  the  greater  part  of  its  career,  society  is  sympathy 
and  instinct  more  or  less  organized,  more  or  less  directed, 
more  or  less  controlled,  by  thought.  When  the  thought 
element  appears,  society  has  become  reflective  ;  and  a  better 
way  to  mark  the  distinction  between  the  lowest  and  the 
highest  societies  than  by  restricting  the  word  "  society "  to 
the  latter  and  calling  the  former  "companies,"  is  by  indicat- 
ing this  element  of  reflection.  Animal  and  primitive  human 
communities  for  the  most  part  are  sympathetic  or  non-re- 
flective societies;  progressive  human  communities  in  general 
are  reflective  societies.  The  reflective  stage  corresponds  to 
the  appearance  of  the  perception  of  kind  and  to  reflective 
sympathy. 

But  even  if  we  were  to  accept  the  thesis  that  the  social 
stuff  is  exclusively  intellectual,  we  could  not  possibly  admit 
that  it  consists  of  all  sorts  of  thoughts  and  knowledges 
indiscriminately.  It  undoubtedly  includes  all  sorts  of 
thoughts  and  knowledges,  but  not  all  sorts  of  thoughts  and 
knowledges  in  and  of  themselves  make  society  or  the  social 
stuff.  The  social  stuff,  so  far  as  it  is  intellectual,  is  one 
kind  of  knowledge  in  particular,  namely,  knowledge  of  re- 
semblances, knowledge  of  those  modes  of  like-mindedness 
that  make  cooperation  possible.  The  same  logic  that  leads 
Professor  Baldwin  to  try  to  separate  the  social  stuff  from 
other  kinds  of  stuff  should  lead  him  further  to  distinguish 
the  thought  that  is  essentially  social,  and  capable  of  organiz- 


40  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

ing  all  other  thoughts  and  knowledges  into  social  material, 
from  the  thought  and  knowledge  that  have  no  such  inherent 
power. 
1  \  Perhaps,  however,  it  is  in  his  few  remarks  about  the  social 
process  that  Professor  Baldwin  has  been  most  unjust  to  him- 
self, and  has  missed  an  opportunity  to  make  a  really  im- 
portant contribution  to  social  science.  ilHe  is  willing  to 
grant  that  the  social  process  consists  in  imitation.  Yet,  if 
the  earlier  chapters  of  "  Social  and  Ethical  Interpretations  " 
prove  anything  at  all,  they  prove  that  imitations  are  pro- 
gressively controlled,  as  individual  development  proceeds, 
by  the  process  of  ejective  interpretation,  —  that  is  to  say, 
by  interpretation  in  terms  of  those  ideas  of  our  fellow-men 
which  we  create  in  the  image  of  ourselves.  To  carry  this 
thought  into  sociology,  it  is  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  the 
function  of  resemblance,  especially  of  mental  and  moral  re- 
semblance, in  controlling  relationships.  In  the  ejective 
processes  of  the  "dialectic  of  personal  growth,"  not  all  of 
our  acquaintances  are  indiscriminately  utilized.  We  detect 
the  difference  between  those  who,  in  ways  important  to  our- 
selves, resemble  us  and  those  who,  in  ways  important  to 
ourselves,  differ  from  us.  Our  ejective  interpretations,  there- 
fore, are  accompanied  at  every  step  by  a  process  of  ejective 
selection.  Ejective  selections,  in  fact,  are  the  psychological 
bases  of  all  social  groupings,  not  only  those  of  the  more 
intimate  sort,  such  as  personal  friendships,  but  those  also 
of  the  purely  utilitarian  sort,  like  business  partnerships. 
In  a  word,  while  imitation  is  a  process  that  penetrates  so- 
'ciety  through  and  through,  it  is  not  a  distinctively  social 
process.  It  is  wider  than  the  social  process,  just  as  thought 
is  more  comprehensive  than  the  social  stuff.  The  distinc- 
tive social  process  is  an  ejective  interpretation  and  selection. 
In  its  widest  form  it  includes  imitation,  controlled  by  or 
made  a  function  of  ejective  selection. 

I  may  now  very  briefly  indicate  the  further  criticisms 
which,  in  pursuance  of  this  thought,  must  be  made  upon 
Professor  Baldwin's  views  —  criticisms,  namely,  that  apply 
to  his  treatment  of   social   policy.     No  exception  is   to  be 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  SOCIETY  41 

taken  to  the  analysis  which  describes  the  individual  as  the 
particularizing  social  force,  and  society  in  its  entirety  as 
the  generalizing  social  force.  But  I  fail  to  discover  in 
Professor  Baldwin's  account  of  the  subject  any  adequate 
recognition  of  the  social  causation  of  individuality.  That 
causation  must  be  sought  in  the  phenomena  of  unlikeness  in 
the  social  population.  Throughout  human  history,  indi- 
viduality and  the  possibility  of  social  variation  have  been 
due  to  the  commingling  of  ethnic  elements,  or,  within  the 
same  nationality,  to  the  commingling  of  elements  long  ex- 
posed to  different  local  environments.  This  commingling 
itself  is  brought  about  by  emigration  and  immigration.  If 
the  biological  phenomenon  of  panmixia  is  all  that  Weis- 
mann,  Galton,  and  other  investigators  have  represented  it  to 
be,  its  levelling  effects  are  counteracted,  and  social  progress 
is  made  possible,  only  by  continual  groupings  and  regroup- 
ings in  the  population  under  the  influence  of  ejective  selec- 
tion. 

Finally,  there  is  no  possible  explanation  of  social  policy  which 
leaves  out  of  account  the  facts  of  mental  and  moral  resemblance 
and  the  consciousness  of  kind.  Without  like-mindedness  there 
can  be  neither  spontaneous  nor  reflective  cooperation.  Not 
only  must  there  be  an  agreement  of  thought,  but  for  most, 
if  not  for  all,  public  cooperation  there  must  be  a  vast  mass  of 
sympathies  and  agreeing  emotions.  Men  must  have  like 
sensations,  must  be  similarly  sensitive  to  suggestion  from 
resembling  fellows,  and  must  subtly  enter  into  like  judg- 
ments, without  always  being  fully  conscious  of  the  process 
by  which  their  conclusions  are  reached.  The  greater  part  of 
all  public  action  must  be  described  as  a  consequence  of  sym- 
pathetic and  half-reflective  agreement  in  plans  and  purposes, 
rather  than  as  a  consequence  of  systematic  deliberation. 
INIoreover,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  all  public  policy  is 
a  means  to  an  end,  proximate  or  ultimate  ;  and  that  the  ulti- 
mate end  in  every  case  is  the  maintenance  and  dcA^elopment 
of  a  certain  type  of  man.  That  type  itself  is  a  mode  of 
resemblance ;  and  the  recognition  of  it,  which  directs  and 
controls  all  policies,  is  a  mode  of  the  consciousness  of  kind. 


IV 
THE  MIND  OF  THE  MANY 


IV 
THE  MIND   OF  THE  MANY 

At  the  general  session  of  the  German  Association  of 
Naturalists  and  Physicians,  held  at  Vienna  in  September, 
1894,  an  Austrian  physicist,  Dr.  Ernst  Mach,  delivered  an 
address  which  every  scientific  inquirer  should  know  by  heart. 
It  was  entitled,  "  On  the  Principle  of  Comparison  in 
Physics  "  ;  and  in  substance  it  was  a  lucid  analysis  of  the 
nature  of  scientific  thought,  and  incidentally  of  the  true 
nature  of  science  itself.  Professor  Mach  began  by  recalling 
a  definition  of  mechanics  which  had  been  given  twenty 
years  before  by  the  great  Kirchhoff.  Mechanics,  Kirchhoff 
had  said,  is  "  the  description,  in  complete  and  very  simple 
terms,  of  the  motions  occurring  in  nature."  This  definition 
had  created  universal  astonishment  in  scientific  circles.  It 
contained  no  mention  of  explanation  or  of  prediction  as 
functions  of  science,  no  allusion  to  universal  or  cosmic  law, 
no  hint  of  any  search  for  first  principles  or  causes.  Little 
wonder  was  it,  that  the  scientific  mind  was  amazed.  Was 
science,  the  supreme  achievement  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
about  to  abandon  all  of  its  chief  pretensions?  Mechanics 
is  of  all  sciences  the  most  exact  and  the  most  advanced. 
If,  then,  mechanics  is  nothing  but  description,  no  other 
branch  of  knowledge  can  claim  to  be  more.  To  demonstrate 
with  perfect  clearness  that  exactly  this  is  the  simple  and 
practically  helpful  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but 
the  truth,  was  the  task  which  Dr.  Mach  essayed. 

I  shall  not  attempt  here  to  repeat  this  demonstration  in 
detail.  It  consisted  in  showing  that  description  is  a  putting 
together  of  facts  in  a  coherent  system  or  continuum,  which 
accurately  corresponds  to  the  coherent  system  or  continuum 

45 


46  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

of  reality  ;  and  that  explanation,  prediction,  the  formulation 
of  laws,  are  nothing  more  and  nothing  less.  When,  for 
example,  the  physicist  formulates  the  law  of  gravitation,  as 
an  attraction  of  bodies  for  one  another  which  varies  directly 
with  their  masses,  and  inversely  with  the  squares  of  their 
distances,  and  predicts  that,  in  accordance  with  this  law,  an 
unsupported  body  will  fall  toward  or  rise  away  from  the 
surface  of  the  earth  according  as  its  specific  gravity  is 
greater  or  less  than  that  of  the  atmospheric  envelope,  he 
merely  puts  together,  in  a  single  condensed  expression,  a 
large  number  of  observed  coherences  of  fact.  And  what 
are  these  observed  facts  ?  Is  the  "  attraction "  which  the 
formula  alleges  one  of  them  ?  Yes  or  no,  according  to  our 
definition  of  the  word.  Shall  we  say  that  it  is  the  "  pull " 
of  a  "force"?  Has  any  human  being  ever  seen,  handled, 
or  otherwise  perceived  a  force  ?  Certainly  not.  And  what, 
moreover,  does  any  human  being  know  of  a  "  pull "  ? 
Nothing  whatever  beyond  certain  sensations  of  muscular 
tension  or  of  political  fatigue.  All,  then,  that  can  actually 
be  observed  of  attraction  is  a  certain  number  of  changes  in 
the  successive  positions  of  material  objects,  and  a  certain 
number  of  changes  in  the  degrees  of  rapidity  with  which 
the  changes  of  position  take  place.  All  that  we  can  really 
experiment  with  is  a  number  of  volumes,  densities,  positions, 
distances,  accelerations,  and  retardations.  And  our  formula 
or  law,  therefore,  is  nothing  more  than  an  accurate  descrip- 
tion of  the  way  in  which  these  observed  facts  cohere  in  an 
objective  series  or  system  of  reality.  The  object  of  science 
is  to  extend  description,  in  this  sense  of  the  word,  until  it 
includes  all  knowable  facts  of  matter,  life,  mind,  and  society, 
and  places  each  fact  in  its  proper  place  in  the  complete 
system. 

This  conception  of  science  —  the  only  one  which  a  critical 
examination  of  the  nature  of  our  knowledge  permits  us  to  en- 
tertain —  clearly  reveals  the  exact  practical  value  of  science. 
As  science  approaches  perfection,  the  description  of  the  cos- 
mos becomes  continuous.  We  discover  that  every  known 
fact  has,  in  coexistence  and  in  sequence,  points  of  contact 


THE  MIND  OF  THE  MANY  47 

with  other  known  facts.  The  lines  and  colours  in  our  chart 
of  the  universe  are  not  drawn  or  splashed  at  random ;  they 
lie  before  the  mental  vision  in  a  marvellous  order  of  grada- 
tions, proportions,  series,  and  systems.  All  the  facts  in  any 
part  of  our  chart  are  seen  to  be  related  to  all  facts  in  every 
other  part.  So  we  arrive  at  the  conception  of  nature  as 
a  system  of  interdependent  facts.  This  conception  once 
reached,  we  perceive  exactly  what  we  mean  when  we  say 
that  science  enables  us  to  predict  combinations  of  facts  not 
hitherto  observed.  Convinced  by  what  we  already  know, 
that  our  further  description  of  nature  will  not  derange  the 
system  already  apparent  in  our  chart,  we  expect  that  further 
knowledge  will  merely  continue  the  curves  already  partly 
drawn,  without  changing  their  equations,  fill  in  unknown 
terms  of  series  without  changing  their  formulas,  and  supply 
shades  of  colour  that  will  not  disturb  the  scheme  already 
apparent.  Science  thus  enables  us  to  anticipate  facts  not 
yet  actually  observed.  If,  then,  we  admit  that  science  is 
description,  and  that  description  both  reveals  and  presup- 
poses the  interdependence  of  the  descriptive  elements,  we 
-can  accept  the  theoretical  and  practical  conclusion  at  which 
Dr.  Mach  arrives,  that  science  completes  in  thought  facts 
that  are  only  partly  given. 

This  conclusion,  I  affirm,  is  no  less  practical  than  theo- 
retical, because  if  such  is  the  nature  and  function  of  science, 
science  enables  us  to  accommodate  our  conduct  or  policy  to 
combinations  of  facts  not  yet  completely  made,  but  which 
science  assures  us  will,  in  the  course  of  time,  be  made  —  at 
least  approximately  —  in  the  world  of  reality.  The  more 
nearly  perfect  our  description  of  any  part  of  that  world  be- 
comes, the  more  closely  may  we  adapt  our  plans,  not  only  to 
the  things  that  now  are,  but  to  the  things  that  shall  be  here- 
after. 

Let  us  now  pass  from  these  general  considerations  to  an 
examination  of  the  nature  and  the  practical  value  of  that 
branch  of  science  which  attempts  to  perfect  our  knowledge  of 
human  society.  If  the  word  "  description"  is  a  broad  enough 
term  to  characterize  a  science  so  advanced  in  its  methods  and 


48  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

its  results  as  mechanical  physics,  it  surely  is  broad  enough  to 
characterize  the  comparatively  new  and,  as  yet,  very  imper- 
fect science  of  sociology.  To  make  our  description  of  human 
society  more  accurate,  more  coherent,  more  complete,  is  a 
task  grand  enough  to  awaken  the  enthusiasm  and  inspire  the 
labour  of  any  man  who  has  enough  of  the  scientific  spirit  to 
justify  a  career  of  sociological  investigation.  Often  has  the 
sneer  been  thrown  at  sociologists  that  as  yet  they  have  been 
unable  to  define  their  science  in  terms  that  anybody  but  the 
sociologist  can  understand.  To  the  extent  that  sociologists 
have  attempted  to  put  into  their  definition  more  or  less  than 
the  scientific  truth,  they  have  deserved  their  punishment. 
The  truth  is  simply  that  sociology  is  a  scientific  description 
of  society.  And  this  is  a  definition  that  even  the  most  non- 
scientific  of  those  journalistic  illuminati  who  have  denied 
the  existence  of  sociology  might,  by  diligent  cogitation, 
make  out  to  understand. 

What,  then,  are  some  of  the  descriptive  elements  of  soci- 
ology, and  what  practical  value  have  they  for  the  determina- 
tion of  private  conduct  and  public  policy  ? 

And  first,  what  is  society,  the  combination  of  facts  to  be 
described  ?  From  one  point  of  view,  this  question  is  Hiber- 
nian, since  the  description  itself  must  be  the  answer.  From 
another  point  of  view,  however,  the  question  is  straightfor- 
ward and  intelligible.  It  means.  What  does  the  word  "  soci- 
ety "  stand  for  in  our  everyday  use  of  the  term  ?  What 
facts  about  the  reality  which  this  word  brings  to  mind  are 
already  known  ?  What,  in  short,  is  the  starting  point  of 
our  descriptive  enterprise  ?  Actually  to  discover  this  start- 
ing point  is  not  an  easy  matter.  The  undertaking  may 
be  compared  to  that  of  a  mathematician  who  wishes  to 
resolve  a  complicated  algebraic  equation,  and  must  choose 
from  among  many  possible  ways  of  stating  it  that  one  which 
he  can  most  easily  work  with  in  his  subse([uent  opera- 
tions. To  most  of  us  the  word  "society"  ordinarily  means 
the  agreeable  intercourse,  the  helpful  cooperation,  and  the 
historical  relations  of  human  beings  ;  it  means,  in  short,  a 
large  and  complex  group  of  human  facts  which  we  ordinarily 


THE  MIND  OF   THE   MANY  49 

picture  to  ourselves  in  a  rather  vague  way.  Is  there  among 
them  some  one  fact  that  is  essential,  fundamental,  or  uni- 
versal, and  which,  therefore,  may  be  selected  as  a  common  or 
characteristic  term  ? 

Under  no  other  circumstances  does  the  human  mind  go  so 
swiftly  and  so  surely  to  the  significant  or  essential  fact  in  a 
bewildering  maze  of  things  as  when  it  is  under  the  compel- 
ling pressure  of  a  great  practical  necessity.  Nearly  two 
thousand  years  ago,  one  of  the  most  gifted  men  of  any  age 
found  himself  under  the  immediate  necessity  of  trying,  for  a 
great  practical  purpose,  to  single  out  and  force  upon  the  at- 
tention of  mankind  the  most  essential,  persistent,  and  for- 
mative fact  of  human  society.  That  man  was  the  Apostle 
Paul.  He  had  been  converted  to  a  new  religion,  and  had 
become  its  chief  interpreter  and  missionary.  Accepting  the 
duties  which  circumstances  and  his  own  nature  placed  be- 
fore him,  of  attempting  to  spread  and  organize  the  new  faith 
throughout  the  known  world,  he  was  compelled  to  examine, 
with  the  utmost  care,  the  question  of  the  social  form  in  which 
this  new  interest  should  be  incorporated.  All  of  the  older 
religions  against  which  Christianity  was  to  make  headway 
had  grown  into  elaborate  social  systems,  with  their  priest- 
hoods, their  carefully  graded  ranks  or  classes  of  believers, 
their  rituals  and  festivals.  Against  their  formalism  Christi- 
anity protested.  Its  own  social  principle,  like  its  individual 
principle,  must  be  inward  and  spiritual,  rather  than  external 
and  legal.  We  may  well  believe  that  during  those  three 
years  which  the  Apostle  spent  in  retirement  in  Arabia,  work- 
ing out  the  detail  of  his  system,  he  gave  most  serious  thought 
to  this  social  aspect  of  his  problem.  It  was  necessary  for 
him  to  find  a  psychological  fact  or  principle  of  social  organiza- 
tion, which  should  be  also  universal, — as  true  for  the  Roman 
as  for  the  Jew,  for  the  Barbarian  as  for  the  Greek  ;  so  simple 
that  the  bondman,  no  less  than  the  freeman,  could  grasp  it, 
yet  so  rich  in  possibilities  that  the  philosophical  disputants 
of  Mars  Hill  and  the  practical  lawyers  on  the  Capitoline 
Hill  might  be  expected  to  accept  and  to  develop  it.  What, 
then,  was  the  social  fact  that  this  subtle  thinker  and  emi- 


50  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

nently  practical  man,  under  such  circumstances,  fixed  upon 
as  essential  and  all-comprehensive  ? 

It  was  the  fact  of  like-mindedness.  Over  and  over  in 
his  Epistles  he  forces  this  fact  upon  the  attention  of  his  read- 
ers, and  warns  them  to  give  heed  to  it.  "  Be  of  the  same 
mind  one  toward  another,"  he  says  to  the  Romans ;  and  in 
the  same  Epistle  he  prays  for  them,  that  they  may  be  of  the 
same  mind ;  that  with  one  accord  and  with  one  mouth  they 
may  glorify  their  God.  The  Corinthians  he  beseeches  to 
"  speak  the  same  thing "  ;  to  "  have  no  divisions  "  among 
them  ;  that  they  may  be  "  perfected  together  in  the  same  mind 
and  in  the  same  judgment."  And  the  Philippians  he  im- 
plores to  "  stand  fast  in  one  spirit,  with  one  soul " ;  to  "  be  of 
the  same  mind,  having  the  same  love,  being  of  one  accord." 
That  it  was  in  truth  Paul  who  first  seized  upon  this  social  prin- 
ciple for  practical  purposes,  we  have  positive  proof.  Only  in 
two  places  outside  of  the  writings  of  Paul,  can  any  allusion 
to  it  be  found  in  either  the  Old  or  the  New  Testament. 
One  is  in  the  first  epistle  of  Peter,  where  the  expression 
"  finally,  be  ye  all  like-minded  "  is  so  exactly  the  phraseology 
of  Paul  that  we  can  hardly  doubt  that  it  was  borrowed  from 
him.  The  other  is  in  Revelation,  where  ten  kings  are 
spoken  of  as  having  one  mind.  That  Paul  himself  derived 
the  suggestion  from  the  Greeks  is  highly  probable,  since 
Aristotle,  in  the  "  Ethics,"  quotes  the  saying  that  "  birds  of  a 
feather  flock  together,"  and  recalls  a  contention  of  Empe- 
docles  that  "like  desires  like."  But,  so  far  as  we  know, 
neither  Greek  nor  Jew,  before  Paul,  ever  singled  out  this 
principle  as  the  all-essential  fact  to  be  remembered  in  the 
development  of  any  plan  of  social  organization. 

Was  Paul  right  in  his  selection  of  the  essential  social  fact  ? 
Speaking  only  for  myself,  and  leaving  other  investigators  of 
society  to  form  their  own  conclusions  from  all  available  evi- 
dence, I  must  say  that  after  many  years  of  persistent  thought 
upon  this  question,  I  am  fully  persuaded  that  he  was  abso- 
lutely and  profoundly  right.  If  this  be  true,  we  have  at 
once  our  provisional  definition  of  society  —  the  conception 
from  which  we  go  forward  to  a  more  complete  description. 


THE  MIND  OF  THE  MANY  51 

The  like-mindedness  upon  which  Paul  insists  is  known  and 
understood  to  be  such  by  the  individuals  who  share  it.  Not 
only  do  A  and  B  agree  in  their  thoughts,  feelings,  purposes ; 
but  also  both  A  and  B  are  aware  of  their  agreement.  More- 
over, they  perceive  that  agreement  is  pleasurable ;  that  the 
fruits  of  concord  are  happiness  and  peace ;  that  discord  is  not 
pleasurable,  and  is  liable  to  end  in  disunion.  They  strive, 
as  Paul  enjoins  them,  to  be  without  divisions,  and  to  be 
"perfected  together  in  the  same  mind  and  in  the  same 
judgment."  What,  then,  is  a  society  ?  Obviously,  it  is  any  * 
number  of  like-minded  individuals,  who  know  and  enjoy 
their  like-mindedness,  and  are  therefore  able  to  work  to- 
gether for  common  ends. 

Is  not  this  exactly  what  we  mean  by  a  society  when  we 
use  the  word  in  our  modern  conversation  ?  A  society  as 
thus  conceived  may  exist  for  any  purpose  whatsoever.  Can 
we  think  of  any  society  which  may  net  be  thus  conceived 
and  defined  ?  Does  there  exist  a  society  for  the  carrying  on 
of  a  commercial  enterprise  ?  Who  are  its  members  ?  Busi- 
ness men  who  think  alike  in  regard  to  the  expediency  and 
the  practical  possibilities  of  the  undertaking,  —  men  of  like 
habits,  of  similar  interests ;  men  whose  intellectual  type  the 
most  casual  observer  can  distinguish  from  that  of  the  scholar, 
the  artist,  or  the  priest.  Does  there  exist  a  society  for  the 
reform  of  the  civil  service  ?  Who  are  its  members  ?  Again, 
men  of  a  common  mental  and  moral  type ;  men  who  are 
sensitive  to  public  honour  and  duty ;  men  who  are  willing  to 
make  sacrifices  of  time  and  energy  for  the  general  good ; 
men  who  believe  that  reform  of  abuses  is  possible,  and  should 
patiently  be  sought.  Does  there  exist  a  society  for  the  pro- 
motion of  any  branch  of  scientific  knowledge,  for  the  enjoy- 
ment and  promotion  of  any  form  of  art,  for  the  prevention  of 
any  form  of  cruelty,  for  the  kindly  help  of  any  class  of  needy 
or  suffering  beings?  Those  who  belong  to  such  organiza- 
tions are  men  and  women  of  easily  distinguished  types, 
whose  common  trait,  as  members  of  their  respective  soci- 
eties, is  their  like-mindedness  with  respect  to  that  object  or 
purpose  for  which  the  society  exists. 


52  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

But  with  truth  it  may  be  said  that  there  are  societies  of 
another  kind.  Villages,  cities,  and  nations  are  societies, 
less  artificial  in  their  formation  than  those  just  named. 
They  are  natural  aggregations  of  people  which  have  devel- 
oped a  social  organization.  This  they  have  done,  how- 
ever, only  because  of  like-mindedness.  On  no  other  basis 
can  a  political  system  rest.  There  must  be  unanimity  of 
feeling  and  opinion  upon  all  fundamental  questions  of  gov- 
ernment and  policy.  All  differences  and  contentions  must 
be  subordinate  to  the  essential,  fundamental  unity  of  thought. 
Therefore  a  natural  society,  a  nation,  for  example,  may  be 
defined  as  a  population  composed  of  like-minded  individuals, 
who  sympathetically  work  together  for  common  ends. 

What,  now,  is  the  practical  value  of  this  first  step  in  the 
scientific  description  of  society,  this  study  of  the  mind  of 
the  many?  The  answer  will  already  have  been  anticipated. 
It  brings  us  to  a  vantage  point  where  we  can  clearly  see 
how  sound  has  been  and  always  will  be  that  instinct  of 
mankind  which  opposes  a  rapid  influx  of  alien  elements 
into  any  existing  population  which  is  fairly  homogeneous, 
and  which  resists  all  heresy,  schism,  and  dissension  when 
carried  beyond  a  certain  point.  One  who  should  name  the 
questions  of  greatest  practical  importance  in  the  United 
States  to-day,  would  include  among  them  the  question  of 
the  restriction  of  immigration  and  the  question  of  the  wis- 
dom of  that  policy  of  our  political  parties  which  reads  out 
of  the  organization  all  "  mugwumps  "  and  "  kickers."  Soci- 
ology can  render  no  greater  practical  service  than  to  show 
that  like-mindedness  is,  in  fact,  the  absolutely  essential  con- 
dition of  social  cohesion,  and  of  the  efficiency  of  any  social 
^organization.      There  is  a  limit   beyond  which  we    cannot 

/  admit  alien  elements  and  preserve  our  identity  as  a  nation ; 

I    a  limit  beyond  which  no  party,  church,  or  sect  can  tolerate 

I    the  mugwump  and  dissenter,  without  incurring  the  penalty 

\  of  its  own  disintegration. 

What,  then,  becomes  of  progress?  Is  that  a  scientific 
description  of  society  which  fails  to  give  any  account  of 
variation?     Absolute   like-mindedness   would  be  the  social 


THE   MIND  OF  THE   MANY  53 

Nirvana.  To  exclude  all  alien  elements  from  the  nation,  to 
drive  all  heretics  from  the  Church,  to  expel  all  independents 
from  the  party  —  this  would  be  a  policy  that  would  pres- 
ently bring  our  fifty  years  of  Europe  to  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 
Sociology  can  predict  for  us  no  such  uninteresting  future. 
The  scientific  description  of  society  is  not  yet  complete. 

As  certainly  as  like-mindedness  is  the  cause  of  social  sta- 
bility, so  is  unlike-mindedness  the  cause  of  social  variation. 
Only  as  new  types  of  character,  new  ways  of  thinking,  new 
habits,  new  ambitions  are  brought  into  the  population,  can 
the  community  undergo  any  essential  change  for  better  or 
for  worse.  Only  as  men  differ  and  dare  to  differ  from  their 
fellows,  can  the  church  or  the  party  adapt  itself  to  new  con- 
ditions. Mere  variation,  however,  is  not  necessarily  progress : 
there  is  no  progress  to  be  discovered  in  disunion  or  in  dis- 
organization. We  here  begin  to  perceive  the  next  step  in 
the  scientific  description  of  society.  A  progressive  society 
must  change,  without  losing  its  cohesion  or  identity.  Re- 
ducing this  statement  to  terms  of  our  fundamental  concept, 
we  find  it  to  mean  that,  in  a  progressive  society,  a  certain 
degree  of  unlike-mindedness  coexists  with  a  large  balance 
foi  like-mindedness.  Looking  a  little  further,  we  discover 
also  that  the  unlike-mindedness  must  be  of  that  kind  or 
quality  which  can  be  reconciled  with  the  like-mindedness. 
Progress,  in  short,  is  the  continuous  harmonizing  of  a  contin- 
'ually  appearing  unlikeness  of  feeling,  thought,  and  purpose 
in  the  community  with  a  vast  central  mass  of  already  estab- 
lished agreements. 

Thus  we  arrive  at  the  second  practical  value  of  sociology. 
It  enables  us  to  see  that,  while  a  fundamental  harmony  of 
beliefs  and  interests  must,  if  possible,  be  maintained  in  any 
social  population  or  artificial  social  organization  ;  and  while, 
at  times,  it  may  be  necessary  to  check  a  too  rapid  inflow  of 
alien  elements,  or  a  too  radical  development  of  dissenting 
opinions,  still,  in  themselves  immigration  and  dissent  are 
necessary  and  good,  and  are  to  be  welcomed  just  to  the 
extent  that  they  can  be  assimilated.  Their  function  is  to 
leaven  the  lump,  not  to  explode  it. 


54  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

From  these  conditions  of  social  stability  and  social  change, 
let  us  now  pass  to  a  consideration  of  the  manner  or  method 
of  change.  A  great  deal  of  social  progress  is  accomplished 
as  quietly  and  unconsciously  as  the  growth  of  a  forest. 
Slight  differences  of  nationality  are  assimilated  ;  minor  pecu- 
liarities of  manner  are  imitated ;  modifications  of  opinion  are 
effected;  until,  in  the  course  of  time,  a  really  important  meta- 
morphosis of  society  has  taken  place,  and  no  one  can  tell 
exactly  how. 

Not  all  social  change,  however,  is  of  this  description. 
Every  now  and  then,  great  masses  of  men  become  dissatis- 
fied with  existing  conditions,  and,  as  a  result  of  their  volun- 
tary and  combined  action,  bring  about  momentous  changes 
in  a  comparatively  short  interval  of  time.  Such  are  revolu- 
tions and  the  social  transformations  inaugurated  by  some  far- 
reaching  governmental  policy.  Such,  for  example,  were  the 
Puritan  rebellion  in  England,  the  American  Revolution  of 
1776,  the  ratification  of  the  Federal  Constitution  of  the 
United  States,  the  abolition  of  negro  slavery,  and  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  French  Republic. 

These  comparatively  rapid  transformations  of  the  social 
system  are  brought  about  in  two  ways :  an  impulsive,  unrea- 
soning social  action,  like  that  of  the  mob,  is  one ;  delibera- 
tion and  discussion  are  the  other.  Of  impulsive  social  action, 
sane  men  in  their  sane  moments  have  a  well-grounded  dread. 
Not  all  the  cruelties  that  have  been  deliberately  inflicted  by 
political  tyrants  and  ecclesiastical  councils  can  for  a  moment 
be  compared  with  the  horrors  that  have  been  perpetrated  by 
irresponsible  masses  of  men  who  have  ceased  to  reason  about 
their  social  situation,  and  have  surrendered  themselves  to  the 
frenzy  of  emotion. 

Sociology,  by  its  more  accurate  description  of  the  condi- 
tions and  processes  of  mob  action,  can  add  nothing  to  the 
repugnance  which  all  calm-minded  men  feel  toward  such 
outbreaks  of  the  brute  nature  that  still  survives  in  man. 
Nevertheless,  the  sociological  description  of  the  mob  con- 
tributes two  elements  of  great  practical  value  to  our  knowl- 
edge of  this  subject.     The  first  is  a  demonstration  that  in  all 


THE   MIND  OF  THE  MANY  55 

cases  of  impulsive  outbreak,  the  transition  from  violent  talk 
to  violent  action  is  first  made  by  the  irresponsible,  quasi- 
criminal  elements  of  the  population.  Riots,  insurrections, 
revolutions,  rarely  begin  with  the  striking  of  a  well-directed 
blow  by  a  disciplined  force,  under  the  command  of  a  far-see- 
ing and  cool-headed  leader.  They  begin  with  assaults,  thefts, 
and  homicides,  with  volleys  of  stones,  with  random  shootings 
and  stabbings,  with  the  looting  of  shops,  and  the  lynching 
of  opponents.  History  teems  with  examples.  To  mention  a 
single  one:  the  Crusades — perhaps  the  most  remarkable  phe- 
nomenon of  epidemic  craze  that  has  ever  been  witnessed  —  did 
not  begin,  as  thousands  of  careless  readers  of  history  sup- 
pose, as  an  organized  and  disciplined  march  of  military  forces 
towards  the  Holy  Land,  under  the  leadership  of  Godfrey  of 
Bouillon,  Hugh  the  Great,  Robert  Curthose,  Count  Robert 
of  Flanders,  Prince  Boehmond  of  Tarentum,  and  Count  Ray- 
mond of  Toulouse,  in  the  year  1097.  They  began  with  the 
three  unorganized  crusades  of  the  preceding  year,  under 
Walter  the  Penniless,  whose  twenty  thousand  followers,  de- 
scribed by  historians  as  the  dregs  of  Christendom,  filled  Bul- 
garia with  robbery  and  murder,  until  they  were  themselves 
slaughtered  in  the  storming  of  Belgrade;  under  Peter  the 
Hermit,  whose  rabble  of  forty  thousand  men,  women,  and 
children  was  hardly  better  in  character ;  and  under  the  Ger- 
man priest,  Gottschalk,  whose  fifteen  thousand  followers  from 
Strasburg,  Worms,  and  Mayence,  began  their  pilgrimage  by 
massacring  Jews  in  the  valley  of  the  Rhine.  Facts  of  this 
kind,  I  think,  are  not  generally  known ;  and  I  am  sure  that 
their  full  significance  is  rarely  perceived.  They  mean  that, 
at  the  very  outset,  impulsive  soouil  a.o,tinn  is  qnfl.s^•-n.r^•Tm•^a^■ 
if   not,  indeed,    n1  to o-Pth P r   pr j fp i q^  1  ;    and  this  jpr   tiiP    -rf>^,«^pn 

th^t  it  be^s^ins  with  the  violent  acts  of  those  men  who  are 
themselves  least  subiect  to  self-control.  It  means,  therefore, 
that  the  unchaining  of  the  wild  beast  in  man,  which  is  so 
often  spoken  of  as  a  result  of  mob  action,  is  really  not  its 
result  at  all,  but  its  Yery  beginning ;  and  that  a  terrible  re- 
sponsibility rests  upon  those  men  and  women  who,  while 
believing  in  rational  deliberation,  and  justly  dreading  epi- 


56  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

demic  emotion,  look  tolerantly  upon  the  initial  stages  of 
social  excitement,  or  carelessly  permit  themselves  to  con- 
tribute to  it,  in  the  unwarranted  belief  that  they  can  turn 
to  and  check  it  when  it  begins  to  go  too  far. 

The  impossibility  of  checking,  until  it  has  run  its  course, 
any  mob  action  that  has  once  fairly  begun,  has  now  been 
fairly  established  as  a  demonstrated  sociological  principle  ; 
and  this  is  the  second  element  which  an  accurate  scien- 
tific description  of  society  adds  to  our  knowledge  of  the 
non-reasoning  or  impulsive  modes  of  social  transformation. 
From  the  moment  that  reason  finally  loses  its  control  over 
masses  of  communicating  men,  they  fall  under  the  power 
of  imitation  and  hypnotic  suggestion ;  and  emotional  fury 
sweeps  through  them  with  increasing  volume  and  accelerat- 
ing velocity,  as  a  conflagration  sweeps  through  accumula- 
tions of  combustible  material.  Impulsive  social  action,  in 
short,  proceeds  not  slowly  through  the  mass,  as  water  filters 
through  sand,  but  with  the  frightful  acceleration  of  a  geo- 
metrical progression.  This  law  has  been  fully  established 
by  psychological  and  sociological  research  ;  and  it  is  no  more 
open  to  doubt  than  is  the  law  of  gravitation.  Moreover,  no 
fact  of  social  knowledge  is  of  greater  practical  importance. 
The  only  way  to  prevent  the  devastating  consequences  of  epi- 
demic madness  is  to  multiply  in  the  community  the  number 
of  those  men  who  habitually  subordinate  feeling  to  reason, 
and  who,  therefore,  cannot  become  a  part  of  the  combustible 
material  of  the  mob  spirit. 

If  these  things  are  true,  it  is  obvious  that  so  far  as  prog- 
ress depends  upon  human  intention  and  the  putting  forth  of 
human  will  to  supplement  the  slow  accumulation  of  those 
minute  changes  that  are  imperceptibly  effected  by  uncon- 
scious evolution,  we  must  look  chiefly  to  the  agency  of  rea- 
son and  deliberation.  What,  then,  are  the  conditions  under 
which  reason  maintains  its  supremacy  in  social  affairs  ? 
What  are  the  conditions  under  which  the  number  of  cool- 
headed,  deliberating  men,  is  multiplied,  and  the  proportion 
of  emotional,  fanatical,  hypnotizable,  impulsive  beings  is 
diminished?     In  answer  to  these  questions,  sociology  adds 


THE   MIND  OF  THE  MANY  57 

to  its  scientific  description  of  society  a  well-demonstrated 
fact,  the  practical  value  of  wliicli  is  certainly  not  inferior  to 
anything  that  has  yet  been  mentioned. 

I  fear  that  the  propositions  which  I  am  about  to  offer  will 
be  unwelcome  to  many  excellent  men  and  women.  Yet  I 
believe  them  to  be  so  absolutely  true  and  of  such  vital  im- 
portance to  the  welfare  of  mankind,  that  I  should  think 
myself  dishonest  and  cowardly  if  I  failed  to  put  them  before 
you.  I  believe  that  the  further  development  of  scientific 
thought  will  fully  substantiate  them,  and  that  they  will  pres- 
ently be  accepted  by  all  clear-thinking  and  far-seeing  men. 

The  questions  that  I  have  just  raised  may  best  be  answered 
by  converting  them  into  a  negative  form.  Under  what  con- 
ditions are  irrationality,  hypnotic  susceptibility,  willingness 
to  follow  without  question  or  resistance  any  suggested  course 
of  action,  most  likely  to  prevail  in  the  community  ?  Are  we 
maintaining  educational  influences  or  agencies,  whose  certain 
tendency  is  to  multiply  the  number  of  unreasoning,  impulsive 
members  of  society  ?  When  our  question  is  put  in  this  way, 
I  cannot  doubt  that  you  will  immediately  foresee  the  answer 
that  must  be  made.  In  the  name  of  religion,  society  for  gen- 
erations has  cherished  a  dangerous  influence  and  has  encour- 
aged the  practice  of  arts  that  menace  the  happiness  and  the 
further  progress  of  mankind.  Of  all  dangerous  teachers  in 
the  community,  a  certain  type  of  the  professional  revivalist 
is  most  to  be  feared.  A  certain  type  of  the  revival  meeting 
is,  and  always  has  been,  the  chief  school  of  impulsive  action. 
Throughout  human  history  that  kind  of  revival  in  which 
reason  is  denounced,  anathematized,  and  submerged  under 
billows  of  crazing  emotion,  has  been  the  foster-mother  of  the 
mob. 

To  my  mind  it  is  little  short  of  amazing  that  any  sane 
person  can  witness  the  occurrences  of  a  negro  revival  in 
the  South,  or  read  of  the  similar  occurrences  that  took 
place  during  the  great  revival  epidemics  that  swept  west- 
ward from  the  Atlantic  seaboard  in  1837  and  in  1857,  or 
listen  to  the  preaching  of  some  of  the  more  popular  of 
modern  revivalists,  without  being  overwhelmingly  convinced 


68  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

of  the  truth  of  these  propositions.  Too  often  the  methods  of 
the  professional  revivalist  are  those  of  the  professional  hyp- 
notizer,  even  when  they  are  more  refined,  and  keep  their 
machinery  out  of  sight.  Too  often  the  revivalist  tells  his 
hearers  that  their  reason  is  the  most  deadly  enemy  of  their 
souls ;  that  the  deliberating,  critical  habit  of  mind  endangers 
their  eternal  salvation  ;  that  their  only  safety  lies  in  immedi- 
ately acting  upon  the  impulse  which  he  is  striving  to  awaken 
in  their  bosoms.  Not  long  ago,  such  a  teacher,  addressing  an 
audience  of  thousands  in  New  York  City,  repeated  as  a  model 
for  universal  imitation  the  prayer  of  a  man  who  besought 
God  to  crush  his  individual  will,  and  make  him  a  helpless 
drift-log  on  the  current  of  divine  purpose.  Now,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  look  at  this  thing  seriously  and  reasonably.  Do 
you  expect  that  men  and  women  who  surrender  themselves 
to  the  influence  of  such  teaching  in  the  revival  meeting  will 
act  coolly,  reasonably,  and  courageously  in  the  affairs  of  sec- 
ular life  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  those  who  yield  unresist- 
ingly to  the  impassioned  appeal  of  the  exhorter,  will  be 
unmoved  by  the  harangue  of  the  partisan  orator,  or  resist 
the  impulse  to  follow  blindly  the  lead  of  the  "  boss  "  who, 
like  his  religious  preceptor,  exacts  unquestioning  obedience, 
and  visits  condign  punishment  upon  the  sceptic  ?  Certainly 
you  do  not ;  and  the  longer  you  think  this  matter  over,  the 
more  fully  satisfied  will  you  become  of  the  truth  of  this  con- 
clusion which,  I  venture  to  assert,  is  one  of  the  fundamental 
truths  of  a  scientific  description  of  society :  So  long  as  the 
grosser,  irrational  foims  of  revivalism  are  possible,  the  per- 
fect protection  of  society  against  epidemic  madness,  and  the 
overthrow  of  any  bossism  of  the  brutal  sort  will  be  im- 
possible. Let  us  not  deceive  ourselves  with  the  belief  that 
we  can  make  men  irrational,  impulsive,  hypnotic  creatures 
for  the  purposes  of  religion,  and  then  find  them  cool-headed, 
critical,  rational  men  for  the  purposes  of  politics. 

When  reason  is  in  control  of  the  social  situation,  and  pro- 
ceeds through  calm  deliberation  to  formulate  an  account  of 
social  evils,  and  to  frame  a  policy  of  reform,  what  is  that  es- 
sential peculiarity  of  the  process  which  a  scientific  description 


THE  MIND   OF  THE   MANY  59 

of  society  brings  to  attention  ?  The  answer  is  :  The  rational 
improvement  of  society  proceeds  through  a  criticism  of  social 
values ;  and  one  of  the  objects  of  sociology  should  be  to  lay 
a  sound  basis  of  descriptive  knowledge  for  this,  the  highest 
kind  of  criticism  in  which  the  rational  intelligence  can  en- 
gage. 

By  the  term  "  social  value  "  is  meant  that  regard  or  esteem 
for  any  social  habit,  relation,  or  institution  which  makes  men 
cherish  and  defend  it.  In  the  long  run,  social  values  are 
measured,  as  economic  values  are,  by  the  sacrifices  that  men 
will  make  for  them.  The  measure  of  the  value  that  we 
attach  to  civil  liberty  is  to  be  found  in  the  sacrifices  that  we 
are  prepared  to  make  to  maintain  it.  The  measure  of  the 
value  that  we  attach  to  any  ancient  usage  or  institution 
which,  in  some  degree,  obstructs  the  later  developments  of  our 
social  system  —  as  the  Established  Church  and  the  House 
of  Lords  are  thought  by  English  Radicals  to  obstruct  prog- 
ress in  England  —  is  the  sacrifice  of  new  possibilities  that 
we  submit  to,  rather  than  witness  the  destruction  of  things 
which  we  have  long  admired  or  revered. 

Thus  it  is  obvious  that  our  social  values,  like  our  economic 
values,  are  determined  by  a  process  of  comparison  extended 
throughout  the  entire  range  of  possible  utilities  and  costs. 
It  is  important  to  the  individual,  in  constructing  his  subjec- 
tive scale  of  economic  values,  to  estimate  accurately  every 
utility  and  every  cost  which  enters  into  his  calculations.  In 
like  manner,  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  the  general 
welfare  that  society  should  accurately  estimate  the  utility  of 
every  social  institution,  of  every  cherished  usage  or  custom, 
and,  with  equal  accuracy,  the  sacrifices,  not  only  of  the  time 
and  money  of  individuals,  but  also  of  possible  developments 
along  new  lines  of  progress,  which  must  be  made  in  order  to 
maintain  the  old ;  or,  taking  the  other  point  of  view,  that  it 
should  estimate  accurately  how  much  of  the  old  must  be  sacri- 
ficed to  secure  the  new.  Accordingly,  the  rational  process  in 
social  development  consists  chiefly  in  that  criticism  of  all  our 
social  values  which  enables  us  wisely  to  choose  among  them. 

What  practical  help  can  sociology,  from  its  study  of  the 


60  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

mind  of  the  many,  bring  to  us  for  the  purposes  of  this  criti- 
cism? 

It  reveals  to  us,  first,  the  fact  that  our  social  values  are  of 
two  great  orders.  All  objects  of  social  esteem  are  ends  to  be 
attained  or  they  are  simply  means  to  the  attainment  of  such 
ends.  Here,  again,  we  have  a  perfect  analogy  with  economic 
categories.  All  economic  goods  are  either  goods  for  final 
consumption,  or  those  means  of  production  which  we  describe 
as  capital.  Now  the  ends  that  we  strive  to  attain  in  society 
are  not  essentially  different  from  those  which  we  strive  to  at- 
tain as  individuals.  The  objects  of  all  endeavour,  whether 
of  individuals  or  of  communities,  are  life,  happiness,  and  the 
development  of  our  rational  personality.  Society  itself  is 
simply  a  means  to  these  ends.  Philosophy  cannot  set  aside  or 
improve  upon  Aristotle's  dictum  that  the  state  exists  for  the 
good  life.  Yet  no  truth  is  more  frequently  lost  sight  of  in 
personal  conduct  or  in  public  policy.  Nothing  is  so  hard  for 
the  partisan  as  to  see  and  admit  that  his  party  is  only  a 
means  to  an  end,  and  that  it  becomes  worse  than  a  cumberer 
of  the  ground  when  it  no  longer  promotes  the  end  for  which  it 
was  instituted.  It  should  be  one  of  the  chief  functions  of  the 
teacher  of  sociology  to  repeat  —  and  to  insist  until  mankind 
does  see  and  admit  —  that  customs,  usages,  institutions,  par- 
ties, churches,  creeds,  have  no  sacredness  in  themselves,  and 
that  there  is  no  other  warrant  for  their  existence  than  may 
be  found  in  their  power  to  contribute,  either  to  the  safe  and 
comfortable  maintenance  of  human  life,  or  to  the  further 
progress  of  the  human  mind  in  knowledge,  power,  reason- 
ableness, and  moral  perfection. 

The  scientific  description  of  society,  however,  not  only 
reveals  the  relativity  of  all  our  social  arrangements  —  and 
thereby  enables  us  roughly  to  estimate  the  comparative  impor- 
tance of  means  and  ends  —  but  also  reveals  to  us  the  condi- 
tions under  which  the  different  means  in  use  are  effectively 
combined  for  the  promotion  of  the  ends  in  view.  In  saying 
this,  I  mean  to  affirm  more  than  is  ordinarily  implied  in 
the  remark  that  human  institutions  have  become  what  they 
now  are  through  a  process  of  historical  evolution,  and  there- 


THE  MIND  OF  THE   MANY  61 

fore  cannot  be  instantly  made  over  or  recombined.  I  mean 
to  affirm  that  all  social  institutions  are  related  in  a  definite 
way  to  the  fundamental  social  fact  of  like-mindedness,  and 
that  all  criticism  of  social  values  must  proceed  with  due  ref- 
erence to  this  condition. 

To  make  this  point  clear,  I  will  attempt  to  indicate  to  you 
how  three  social  values  that  greatly  occupy  the  modern  mind 
are  related  to  the  phenomenon  of  like-mindedness.  The  watch- 
words of  democracy  are,  "liberty,"  "equality,"  and  "frater- 
nity." It  was  the  assumption  of  the  revolutionists  of  France 
that  the  ideals  for  which  these  three  words  stand  could  all  be 
simultaneously  realized,  and  the  same  assumption  is  made  by 
social  democrats  to-day.  But  critical  thinkers,  like  Sir  James 
Fitzjames  Stephen  have  attempted  to  prove  that  these  ideals 
are  fundamentally  irreconcilable.  If  liberty  exists,  they  say, 
men  will  develop  unequally,  and  will  overthrow  any  artificial 
equality  of  social  conditions.  If  equality  is  maintained,  lib- 
erty must  be  sacrificed.  What,  now,  are  the  observed  facts  ? 
Do  we  actually  sometimes  see  the  coexistence  of  liberty, 
equality,  and  fraternity  ?  Do  we  actually  sometimes  see  the 
sacrifice  of  one  of  these  conditions,  in  the  attempt  to  maintain 
another  ?  And  if  sometimes  the  three  conditions  do  coexist, 
while  at  other  times  they  do  not,  what  are  the  circumstances 
that  may  be  observed  in  each  case  ?  Actually,  there  have 
been  innumerable  small  democracies  here  and  there,  and 
innumerable  religious  societies  and  fraternal  organizations, 
in  which  all  three  of  these  democratic  ideals  have,  at  the 
same  time,  been  fairly  well  realized.  We  are  speaking  now, 
of  course,  of  relative,  and  not  absolute,  conditions ;  for  no  sane 
man  has  ever  dreamed  of  absolute  equality  or  of  absolute  lib- 
erty. He  has  dreamed  only  of  a  social  state  in  which  the 
approximation  to  equality  and  to  liberty  should  be  sufficiently 
great  to  outweigh  the  inequalities  and  restraints.  That  this 
condition  was  actually  realized  in  most  of  the  towns  and 
villages  of  our  American  commonwealths,  from  the  adoption 
of  the  Federal  Constitution  down  to  the  beginning  of  the 
Civil  War,  I  suppose  no  well-informed  American  will  deny. 
That  it  is  on  the  whole  true  of  Republican  France  to-day,  is 


62  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

the  judgment  of  the  most  careful  observers.  That  it  has 
always  been  true  of  certain  ecclesiastical  organizations, —  for 
example,  the  Congregationalists,  the  Unitarians,  the  Uni- 
versalists,  and  the  Society  of  Friends,  —  is  equally  beyond 
dispute.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  obviously  not  true  at  the 
present  time  of  our  larger  American  cities ;  and  it  has  never 
been  true  of  such  ecclesiastical  organizations  as  the  Roman 
Catliolic,  the  Episcopal,  and  the  Presbyterian  churches. 

Wherein  lies  the  difference?  If  we  look  carefully,  we  shall 
discover  that  those  communities  or  other  social  organizations 
which  have  fairly  well  maintained  both  equality  and  liberty, 
and  have  reconciled  them  with  a  good  degree  of  fraternity, 
have  been,  on  the  whole,  noteworthy  for  their  homogeneity. 
For  the  most  part,  their  members  have  been  men  and  women 
of  the  same  race  and  nationality,  often  of  the  same  family 
stocks,  often  of  the  same  pursuits  and  circumstances  in  life. 
The  communities  and  social  organizations  which,  on  the  other 
hand,  have  been  obliged  to  sacrifice  either  equality  or  liberty, 
have  been  heterogeneous  in  a  high  degree.  The  Roman  Catho- 
lic organization,  for  example,  has  undertaken  to  include  within 
its  membership  men  of  every  race  and  tongue,  in  every  clime, 
and  in  every  state  of  life,  and  to  insist  upon  their  absolute 
spiritual  equality  and  upon  an  almost  unconditional  fraternity 
in  their  relations  to  one  another.  This  it  has  accomplished 
only  by  the  unconditional  sacrifice  of  intellectual  and  moral 
liberty.  Its  government  is  an  unqualified  absolutism.  In  like 
manner,  our  modern  cities,  like  New  York  and  Philadelphia, 
as  they  have  become  heterogeneous  in  population,  have  com- 
pletely lost  that  approximate  balance  of  liberty  and  equality 
which  they  originally  maintained,  and  present  to  our  view  an 
astonishing  medley  of  specific  liberties  and  specific  equalities, 
offset  by  inequalities  and  restrictions  that  our  forefathers 
would  have  deemed  inconceivable.  Equalitv  in  tlie  political 
suffrage  is  offset  by  thpi  widest  inecjualitv  of  ftnonni^jp.  nomli- 
ti,op.  The  tlieoretical  libertv  of  ^<^1f-p'OYf^''"'^^^^"t  ^l^*?  ^^'^'^"  lost 
in  th(j!  practical  s^irrender  of  municipal  affairs  to  the  state 
legislature  and  the  party  boss. 

The  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter,  therefore,  seems  to  be 


THE  MIND  OF  THE  MANY  63 

that  the  words  "  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity "  express  a 
perfectly  possible  order  of  coexistence,  but  an  impossible  se- 
quence. That  is  to  say,  we  cannot  begin  with  liberty,  irre- 
spective of  fraternity  and  equality,  and  expect  that  liberty 
will  then  develop  into  fraternity  and  equality.  It  is  more 
likely  to  develop  into  the  widest  inequality  and  burning 
hatreds.  If,  however,  we  first  have  fraternity,  we  can  also 
have  liberty.  Men  who  are  alike,  —  who  have  common  inter- 
ests, who  are  like-minded,  —  can  live  together  on  a  basis  of 
mutual  agreements,  without  any  coercive  power  above  them 
to  keep  them  in  order.  Men  of  differing  nationalities  and 
faiths,  if  also  of  discordant  minds,  can  live  and  work  together 
for  a  common  purpose  only  when  a  coercive  power  maintains 
order  among  them.  Fraternity,  then,  must  be  antecedent  to 
liberty,  and  not  liberty  to  fraternity,  if  liberty  and  fraternity 
are  to  coexist.  And  in  order  that  there  may  be  fraternity, 
there  must  first  be  homogeneity  or  like-mindedness.  Neces- 
sary to  continuing  fraternity  also  is  equality ;  for  only  as  a 
certain  degree  of  equality  is  maintained  can  like-mindedness 
prevail.  Nothing  will  so  surely  bring  about  an  irreconcilable 
conflict  of  feeling  and  opinion  as  a  great  inequality  of  eco- 
nomic condition,  of  political  status,  or  of  educational  oppor- 
tunity. J^  of  the  p|-reat  social  conflicts  of  history  have 
^PYvyig"  from  inequality. 

Sociology,  then,  has  a  clear  and  definite  word  to  say  on  the 
great  practical  modern  question  of  the  relation  of  equality 
to  republican  self-government.  Further  progress  in  true 
republicanism  will  be  possible  just  to  the  extent,  and  only  to 
the  extent,  that  we  can  gradually  achieve  a  greater  equality, 
without  resorting  to  methods  that  destroy  liberty  or  fraternity. 
Just  to  the  extent  that  there  develops  in  the  community  an 
ethical  spirit  which  leads  us  to  resist  the  monopolization  by 
the  few  of  resources  and  opportunities  that  should  be  the 
common  heritage  of  all  mankind,  to  demand  that  our  public 
school  system  of  education  shall  be  perfected,  and  that  our 
laws  shall  be  equally  enforced,  our  nation  may  become  repub- 
lican in  fact  as  in  name  and  in  tradition.  It  was  not  a  socialist, 
but  that  calmest  of  critics,  Matthew  Arnold,  who,  many  years 


64  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ago,  endeavoured  to  convince  the  English  people  that  the 
remedy  for  their  social  evils  was  not  to  be  sought  in  dises- 
tablishment or  any  other  constitutional  change,  but  rather  in 
social  equality.  The  more  you  think  of  it,  he  assured  them, 
"the  more  you  will  be  persuaded  that  Menander  showed 
his  wisdom  quite  as  much  when  he  said  choose  equality,  as 
when  he  assured  us  that  evil  communications  corrupt  good 
manners." 

This  conclusion  is,  I  think,  an  excellent  example  of  the  help 
that  sociology  can  render  us  in  the  rational  and  constructive 
criticism  of  social  values.  It  tells  us  that  all  our  social  values 
must  be  referred  for  final  correction  to  the  fundamental  facts 
that  society  and  social  institutions  are  but  means  to  an  ethical 
end,  and  that  society  itself  is  grounded  in  like-mindedness. 
The  Anglo-Saxon  tendency  is  to  value  liberty  supremely. 
This  is  a  disproportionate  estimation  of  a  condition  which  is 
not,  in  itself,  sufficient  for  the  attainment  of  "the  good  life." 
J)ie  social  function  of  libertv  is  to  insure  variation  and  prog- 
regg.  to  permit  the  new  to  modify  and  improve  the  old.  ^yt 
libertv  without  fraternity  and  equality  would  disintegrate 
Sflfijjeiy.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  supremely  value  equality 
and  fraternity,  to  the  neglect  of  liberty,  we  may  easily  make 
the  mistake  of  trying  to  level  conditions  by  radical  methods, 
and  thus  put  an  end  to  progressive  change.  Whatever  other 
men  may  think,  the  sociologist  is  unable  to  doubt  that  only 
the  community  which  chiefly  values  equality,  homogeneity, 
and  fraternity,  can  permanently  maintain  its  cohesion  and 
stability;  and  that  onl}'-  the  community  which,  valuing  equal- 
ity chiefly,  values  liberty  in  only  a  slightly  less  degree,  can 
be  both  stable  and  progressive. 

I  have  now  indicated  many  of  the  practical  values  of  soci- 
ology, regarded  as  a  descriptive  study  of  the  mind  of  the 
many.  The  list  is  by  no  means  complete.  I  have  selected 
only  those  chiefly  important  ones  which  are  more  immedi- 
ately connected  with  the  most  important  propositions  of 
sociological  theory.  Sociology  enables  us,  in  a  measure,  to 
govern  the  conditions  on  which  social  stability  and  social 
progress  depend.     It  enables  us  to  appreciate  the  profound 


THE  MIND  OF  THE   MANY  65 

distinction  between  impulsive  and  rational  social  change, 
and  to  discover  the  dangers  that  lurk  in  the  practice  of  at- 
taching the  sanctions  of  religion  to  irrationality.  In  addition 
to  all  these  services,  sociology  enables  us  to  attempt  a  ra- 
tional and  constructive  criticism  of  our  social  values,  and  to 
combine  them  in  a  realizable  social  ideal.  It  extends  its 
scientific  description  of  society  into  the  past,  and  projects  it 
into  the  future.  Its  forecast  is  no  impossible  Utopia.  It 
assumes  that  if  the  work  of  description  is  accurately  done  in 
the  present,  the  sociologist  of  the  future  will  have  no  occasion 
to  substitute  for  it  a  wholly  new  system  of  facts;  but  will 
merely  complete  the  system  already  begun.  In  a  word,  the 
supreme  practical  value  of  sociology  is  that,  like  every  other 
science,  it  completes  in  thought,  for  the  daily  guidance  of 
mankind,  a  system  of  facts  which,  as  yet,  are  only  partly 
given. 


V 


THE   COSTS   OF  PROGRESS 


THE   COSTS   OF  PROGRESS 

He  teaches  "  a  blinding  superstition,"  said  Theophrastus 
Such,  who  teaches  "  that  a  theory  of  human  well-being  can  be 
constructed  in  disregard  of  the  influences  that  have  made  us 
human."  If  modern  thought  has  any  new  truth  to  contribute 
to  the  inherited  stock  of  ethical  wisdom,  it  is  because  we  are 
in  a  position  to  study  more  minutely  than  was  possible  in 
earlier  days,  and  to  interpret  more  exactly,  the  forces  and 
conditions  by  which  our  human  nature  has  been  wrought. 
We  shall  find  them  to  be  not  altogether  different  in  kind  from 
those  that  were  recognized  by  Plato,  Aristotle,  and  Kant. 
Indeed,  the  Greek  conceptions  were  truer  than  some  later 
ones.  Most  of  the  ethical  systems  that  have  been  constructed 
since  the  Protestant  Reformation  have  dealt  directly  with  the 
individual,  and  have  attempted  to  work  from  the  individual 
to  society.  In  this  they  have  been  not  wholly  wrong.  Cen- 
turies of  suppression  of  individuality  by  Church  and  State 
had  obscured  one-half  of  moral  truth.  Men  needed  to  be 
reminded  that  the  individual,  once  he  comes  into  existence, 
has  a  value  in  and  for  himself,  and  must  be  counted  as  a  force 
reacting  on  society.  But  so  far  as  ethical  systems  have 
assumed  the  individual  as  an  independent  starting-point  of 
social  and  moral  phenomena,  they  have  been  radically  untrue. 

The  Greeks  never  failed  to  see  that  all  rational  life  is  a 
product  of  social  conditions.  To  the  Greek,  says  Butcher, 
" '  The  man  versus  the  state '  was  a  phrase  unknown  ;  the 
man  was  complete  in  the  state ;  apart  from  it  he  was  not 
only  incomplete,  he  had  no  rational  existence.  Only  through 
the  social  organism  could  each  part,  by  adaptation  to  the 
others,    develop    its    inherent   powers."      Nevertheless,    this 

69 


70  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

doctrine  of  the  creation  of  man  bv  society  was  by  no  means 
completely  thought  out  in  the  minds  of  those  writers  who 
first  formulated  it,  and  those  who  last  concerned  themselves 
about  it  left  much  to  be  added  by  the  students  of  a  later  time. 
Aristotle's  comparative  study  of  one  hundred  and  fifty-eight 
different  communities,  which  enabled  him  first  among  scien- 
tific investigators  to  show  in  detail  how  and  why  the  good 
life  can  have  existence  only  in  the  organized  state,  was  a 
theoretical  no  less  than  a  practical  advance  beyond  the  spec- 
ulative insight  of  Plato.  In  like  manner,  our  modern  study 
of  social  progress  is  an  advance,  both  theoretical  and  practical, 
beyond  the  work  of  Plato  and  Aristotle,  and  beyond  the 
philosophy  of  man  as  it  stood  when  post-Kantian  idealism 
had  achieved  in  Germany  its  task  of  reviving  Hellenic  moods 
of  thought.  This  assertion  demands,  perhaps,  a  single  word 
of  explanation.  They  misapprehend  the  work  of  science  who 
oppose  it  to  speculative  philosophy,  as  if  one  must  choose 
between  them  which  god  he  will  serve.  It  may  be  that  our 
modern  science  can  discover  few  great  truths  of  which  at 
least  some  glimmerings  were  not  seen  in  ancient  Greece.  The 
very  doctrine  of  evolution  is  in  that  sense  not  new.  But  the 
mission  of  science  is  a  patient  conversion  of  insight  into  sight; 
of  dialectic  into  knowledge.  Our  advantage  is  not  in  a 
conviction  more  sure  than  Aristotle's,  that  he  who  can  live 
without  society  must  be  either  a  beast  or  a  god :  it  is  in  a 
minute  and  relatively  precise  knowledge  of  those  slow  but 
certain  processes  of  biological  and  social  change  by  which  the 
transformation  of  brutality  into  humanity  is  effected.  And  we 
cannot  afford  to  despise  this  more  nearly  j)erfect  knowledge, 
as  but  a  tedious  elaboration  of  ideas  long  since  familiar  and 
accepted.  It  is  itself  a  new  factor  in  the  social  process.  In 
the  fateful  game  of  chess  with  the  unseen  antagonist  of  Mr. 
Huxley's  picture,  it  enables  man  to  play  with  the  cool  and 
calculating  joy  of  one  who  knows  the  meaning  and  the  end 
of  every  move ;  knows,  too,  that  on  the  other  side,  the  play, 
though  real  and  relentless,  is  always  just,  patient,  and  fair. 

Therefore,  chief  among  the  relations  of  cause  and  effect  in 
the  wonderful  process  that  has  made  us  human,  is  one  that 


THE   COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  71 

brings  together,  in  a  complete  truth,  the  partial  explanations 
that  we  owe  to  Athens,  with  other  explanations,  no  less  par- 
tial, that  have  been  worked  out  in  our  own  day.  The  action 
of  a  social  medium  upon  intelligence  and  character,  on  the 
one  hand,  natural  selection  and  survival  on  the  other,  —  these 
influences  together  have  created  human  faculty.  There  came 
a  time  in  the  long  struggle  for  existence,  as  Mr.  Wallace  has 
shown,  when  mental  resource  counted  for  more  than  physical 
strength.  But  anthropoid  apes  and  simian  men,  we  have  every 
reason  to  suppose,  acquired  mental  resources  through  their 
social  habits,  which  multiplied  experiences  and  made  tradition 
possible.  The  intelligence  that  association  created  has  never 
ceased  to  depend  on  association  for  perpetuation  and  growth. 
Deprived  of  comradeship  by  circumstance  or  law,  men  go 
back  to  the  brutality  from  which  they  came.  Wilfully  reject- 
ing companionship,  they  learn,  with  Manfred,  that  man  is 
not  yet  qualified  to  act  the  part  of  god : 

..."  There  is  an  order 
Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth,  and  die  ere  middle  age, 
Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death." 

Therefore  it  has  been  the  creatures  best  equipped  with  social 
habit  and  its  products  that  have  won  and  maintained  suprem- 
acy in  the  ceaseless  contention  with  physical  nature  and  liv- 
ing enemies.  Society  is  a  means  to  a  perfectly  definite  end, 
—  namely,  the  survival  of  living  creatures  through  a  progres- 
sive evolution  of  their  intelligence  and  sympathy.  There  can 
be  no  sociology  worthy  of  the  name  which  is  not  essentially 
an  elaboration  of  this  central  principle.  The  notion  that 
society  is  an  end  in  itself  amounts  to  an  unthinkable  proposi- 
tion. At  the  same  time,  the  intelligence  and  the  fraternity 
that  association  creates  react  in  their  turn  on  society,  making 
it  better  as  a  working  organization,  nobler  and  purer  as 
a  medium  of  individual  life.  Thus  the  interpretation  of 
man  as  a  progressive  ethical  being,  and  the  interpretation  of 
society  as  an  ever-changing  plexus  of  relationships,  must  pro- 
ceed together.  It  is  not  enough  to  know,  with  the  philosophers 
of  Greece,  that  without  society  and  social  duty  there  can  be 


72  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

no  individual  moral  life.  They  understood  well  the  problems 
of  social  order  and  the  nature  of  personal  worthiness.  They 
knew  that  excellence  is  essentially  a  fact  of  organization: 
Plato's  demonstration  that  justice  in  the  state  and  goodness 
in  the  individual  life  are  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  co- 
ordinated play  of  mutually  dependent  and  mutually  limiting 
activities,  in  proportions  harmonious  with  one  another,  and 
in  perfect  subordination  to  the  unity  of  the  whole,  has  never 
been  equalled,  certainly  never  surpassed,  in  ethical  analysis. 
They  were  familiar,  too,  with  a  thousand  aspects  of  social  and 
of  individual  change.  But  they  did  not  combine  these  ele- 
ments into  a  synthetic  conception.  They  were  unable  to 
unite  the  static  with  the  kinetic  factors  of 'their  problem,  and 
so  to  arrive  at  the  peculiarly  modern  notion  of  a  moving  equi- 
librium. And  therefore  they  failed  to  achieve  an  entirely 
true  and  sufficient  philosophy  of  either  man  or  the  state.  For 
life  is  not  the  whirl  of  a  constant  number  of  jugglers'  plates, 
balanced  on  the  sword-points  of  the  players :  it  is  a  whirl  in 
which  new  plates  and  new  motions  appear  at  every  instant, 
compelling  ever  most  delicate  readjustments  throughout  the 
entire  system,  and  yet  without  once  disturbing  seriously  the 
approximately  perfect  balance  of  the  whole.  The  large  and 
difficult  conception,  then,  to  which  we  must  attain,  is  that  of  a 
world  in  which  there  can  be  no  true  ethical  phenomena  except 
through  a  process,  at  once  progressive  and  orderlj^,  of  mutual 
modifications  and  adaptations  of  man  and  society  by  each 
other ;  in  which  each  acquires,  stage  by  stage,  a  more  deli- 
cate complexity  of  organization.  Of  the  many  implications 
of  this  conception  we  must  now  examine  some  of  the  more 
important. 

In  philosophy  of  every  school  the  term  personality  stands 
for  the  highest  synthetic  product  of  mental  evolution.  True 
personality  is  a  well-unified,  self-conscious  mental  life,  har- 
monious within  itself,  capable  of  indefinite  expansion,  and 
sympathetic  with  surrounding  life  because  realizing  and  com- 
prehending in  itself  the  manifold  possibilities  of  life.  It  is 
the  type  at  once  of  the  concrete  and  of  the  universal.  One 
who  thoroughly  understands  this  will  never  make  the  mistake 


THE   COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  73 

of  believing,  on  the  one  hand,  that  utility  is  the  fundamental 
word  of  ethics,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  that  ethics  can  be 
complete  without  including  utilitarianism.  The  fundamental 
word  of  ethics  is  integrity  —  wholeness.  There  can  be  no 
utility  apart  from  a  consciousness  capable  of  wants  and  satis- 
factions. The  integrity,  the  unity,  the  internal  harmony  of 
that  consciousness  is,  therefore,  the  first  necessity.  The 
strongest  ethical  terms  —  as  right,  truth,  obligation  —  stand  in 
direct  relation  to  integrity  rather  than  to  utility.  The  joy 
of  activity  also,  including  the  supreme  satisfaction  that  one 
may  find  in  self-sacrifice,  is  related  to  integrity  first  of  all,  for 
it  implies  the  consistent  action  of  the  whole  personality; 
while  utility  is  a  quality,  not  immediately  of  conduct  as  spon- 
taneous activity,  but  rather  of  its  reactions.  Therefore,  if 
integrity  and  utility  come  into  direct  conflict,  utility  must 
for  the  moment  give  way;  since  self-conservation  is  prelim- 
inary to  self-expansion ;  and  because  the  vitality  and  the 
qualities  of  conduct,  by  which  all  its  own  consequences  are 
conditioned,  are  governed  by  its  internal  unity  of  purpose. 
But  there  can  be  no  enduring  integrity  without  development, 
no  permanent  conservation  without  progress.  Therefore, 
ethics  cannot  stop  at  integrity.  It  must  expand  into  utili- 
tarianism, and  work  out  the  laws  of  that  cumulative  happi- 
ness which  is  the  reward  and  the  confirmation  of  well-doing. 

Put  this  conception  of  personality  side  by  side  with  our 
view  of  intelligence  as  a  product  of  social  conditions.  Is  it 
not  evident  that  personality,  in  this  philosophical  sense,  comes 
into  being  only  in  the  relatively  perfect  society,  which  has 
passed  beyond  the  limitations  of  tribal  existence,  and  even 
of  a  narrow  nationalism,  into  a  sympathetic  relation  to  man- 
kind in  all  its  varied  phases  of  development  ?  If  so,  it  is  a 
product  of  progressive,  as  distinguished  from  both  stationary 
and  anarchistic,  or  disintegrating,  society ;  and  the  theory  of 
personality  can  be  worked  out  only  in  terms  of  a  theory  of 
social  progress. 

In  detail  this  means  that  a  society  in  which  the  highest 
type  of  mind  can  appear  is  one  that  has  had,  first,  such  a 
vigorous  ethnical  or   national  existence,  and,   second,  such 


74  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

varied  contact  with  surrounding  peoples,  that  it  has  become 
plastic  without  losing  its  distinctive  character.  In  the  no- 
menclature of  evolution,  it  has  acquired  internal  mobility 
without  losing  cohesion.  By  admixture  of  bloods,  a  variable 
but  not  unstable  physical  nature  has  been  produced.  By 
numberless  comparisons  of  one  mode  of  civilization  with 
another,  a  mental  temper  at  once  critical  and  catholic  has 
been  created.  Prosperity  and  a  rapidly  increasing  popula- 
tion have  brought  the  young  and  enterprising  to  the  front 
in  the  conduct  of  affairs.  Selection  has  weeded  out  those 
who  could  neither  learn  nor  forget.  Force  and  authority  in 
the  social  organization  have  so  far  given  way  to  spontaneous 
initiative  that  the  individual  can  find  scope  for  the  develop- 
ment of  his  latent  powers,  but  not  so  far  as  to  permit  disin- 
tegration. Contact  and  converse  being  the  conditions  of 
progress,  its  phases  are  an  increase  of  material  well-being, 
an  inclusive  sympathy,  a  catholic  rationality,  and  a  flexible 
social  constitution,  adapting  itself  readily  to  changing  con- 
ditions, yet  of  enduring  strength.  And  since  the  conserva- 
tion of  energy  is  a  fact  of  social  as  of  physical  phenomena, 
the  essential  nature  of  progress,  beneath  all  conditions  and 
phases,  is  a  conversion  of  lower  —  that  is,  more  simple,  im- 
perfectly organized  —  modes  of  energy  into  higher.  Eco- 
nomic activities  transform  the  energies  of  physical  nature 
into  social  force,  of  which  there  is  no  other  source  whatever, 
since  artistic,  religious,  educational,  and  political  activities 
are  but  a  further  transformation  of  the  results  of  economic 
effort.  In  the  medium  of  all  these  activities  is  moulded 
their  final  product,  the  human  personality,  which  could 
come  into  being  in  no  other  way  and  under  no  other  cir- 
cumstances. 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  sociological  facts  that  underlie  ethi- 
cal problems.  It  is  interesting  to  reflect  that  in  a  vague  way 
the  great  truth  which  they  contain,  that  without  social  prog- 
ress there  can  be  no  human  personality,  and,  therefore,  no 
ethics,  has  always  been  present  in  popular  consciousness. 
Tlie  experiences  of  individual  life,  of  course,  afford  a  basis 
for  it,  since  the  years  from  childhood  to  maturity  are  nor- 


THE   COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  75 

mally  a  period  of  increasing  personal  power,  in  which  e very- 
ambitious  man  believes  that  he  was  born  to  accomplish  some 
desirable  transformation  of  the  community.  But  social  ex- 
periences in  the  mass  have  doubtless  built  the  superstruc- 
ture. Studies  in  ethnology  and  comparative  religions  are 
pointing  to  the  probable  conclusion  that  faith  in  progress 
has  been  an  essential  element  in  every  religious  belief. 
Under  some  circumstances  it  may  be  the  only  element. 
Charity-workers  in  the  slums  of  Paris  and  London  report 
that  an  undefined,  shadowy  belief  in  a  better  state  of  things 
is  the  last  trace  of  religious  consciousness  discoverable  in 
whole  classes  of  the  very  poor.  What  has  been  the  genesis 
of  the  conviction  ?  Everywhere  social  advance  has  been 
brought  about  through  successive  waves  of  conquest.  Natu- 
rally enough,  in  the  minds  of  the  conquerors,  the  good  order, 
the  right  order,  has  been  identified  with  the  new  order  of 
things  which  they  have  sought  to  establish.  The  evil  order 
has  been  the  old  way  of  life  that  was  followed  by  the  subju- 
gated enemies  who  are  now  reduced  to  serfdom.  Good  spirits 
are  those  who  favour  the  plans  of  the  enterprising  and  success- 
ful, in  whose  control  are  the  shaping  of  public  policy  and  the 
dictation  of  orthodox  belief.  It  is  true  that  orthodoxy  is  no 
sooner  born  than  it  turns  conservative  and  seeks  to  maintain 
itself  against  further  change.  But  the  effort  is  vain.  An- 
other conquest,  or  a  new  generation,  brings  new  men  and 
new  issues  to  the  fore,  and  a  new  orthodoxy  stands  ever 
ready  to  crowd  the  old  relentlessly  to  the  wall.  The  con- 
quered and  oppressed,  on  their  part,  have  a  doctrine  of 
progress  also.  It  is  a  faith  in  a  future  in  which  justice  shall 
be  done,  when  they  shall  be  delivered  from  their  captivity 
and  in  their  turn  put  their  ruthless  enemies  under  foot.  In 
time  a  closer  intercourse  and  a  finer  feeling  soften  and  blend 
these  conflicting  faiths  into  a  belief  in  the  ultimate  happiness 
and  perfection  of  all  classes. 

Crude  and  even  visionary  as  it  may  be,  this  perennial  faith 
in  progress  is  the  motive  power  of  moral  life.  Science  must 
rectify  it  at  a  thousand  points,  but  the  very  first  word  of 
an  ethical  science  that  is  not  charlatanism  itself  must  be  an 


76  ^  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

unequivocal  declaration  that  such  faith  in  se  is  the  beginning 
of  righteousness.  The  first  law  of  life  is  a  law  of  motion. 
In  society,  as  on  the  street,  the  preliminary  duty  is  to 
"move  on."  The  nation  that  has  no  further  reconstructions 
to  efifect,  no  new  ideals  to  realize  in  practice,  has  completed 
its  work,  and  will  disappear  before  the  warfare  or  the  migra- 
tions of  more  earnest  men.  But  the  moving  on  must  be 
developmental :  mere  change  is  not  evolution,  but  confusion  ; 
and  the  nature  and  limitations  of  an  evolutionary  process, 
imperfectly  recognized  as  yet  in  ethical  discussion,  are  prac- 
tically unknown  to  popular  thought.  It  is  here,  then,  that 
the  rectifying  work  of  science  must  begin.  Human  society 
is  not  a  something-for-nothing  endowment  order.  The  vision 
of  a  completed  society,  lacking  neither  material  comfort  nor 
any  moral  excellence,  in  which  foolishness,  want,  and  suffer- 
ing could  linger  only  as  dim  memories  of  an  imperfect  past, 
has  had  a  strangely  persistent  fascination  for  speculative 
minds  in  every  age.  Common  sense  has  never  accepted  the 
dream  for  reality;  for  common  sense  is  a  sceptic  from  the 
beginning.  Philosophy  has  doubted  if  evil  be  not  inherent 
in  the  nature  of  the  world,  and  therefore  ineradicable.  But 
doubt  and  scepticism  have  fallen  far  short  of  reasoned  demon- 
stration from  experience  that  the  vision  is  inherently  absurd. 
Yet  the  elements  of  the  demonstration  that  science  has  been 
patiently  working  out  in  recent  years  are  simple  enough. 
The  available  energy  of  society  at  any  given  moment  is 
strictly  limited  in  amount.  The  total  can  be  increased  only 
by  parting  with  some,  in  the  thought  and  labour  by  which 
larger  stores  of  physical  energy,  contained  in  the  natural 
resources  of  the  environment,  are  set  free  and  converted  to 
human  use.  All  progress,  therefore,  is  conditioned  by  cost ; 
and  if  the  law  of  conservation  holds  good  in  these  matters, 
as  we  have  assumed  that  it  must,  the  cost  will  increase  with 
the  progress  —  not,  however,  necessarily  in  the  same  ratio  as 
the  gain,  since  riper  knowledge  should  enable  us  to  get  more 
from  physical  nature  with  a  given  expenditure  of  human 
effort.  In  this  simple  form  the  limitations  of  progress  pre- 
sent an  economic  rather  than  a  moral  problem,  and  need  not 


THE  COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  77 

detain  us  at  the  present  time.  But  since  society  is  an  organic 
aggregate,  the  cost  of  progress  takes  on  various  complica- 
Tibns,  out  of  which  grow  ethical  problems  that  are  both  grave 
and  difficult.  As  was  shown  in  the  illustration  of  the  mov- 
ing equilibrium,  society,  as  an  aggregate  that  is  simulta- 
neously losing  and  absorbing  motion,  must  experience  an 
incessant  rearrangement  of  its  parts.  This  means  two  very 
important  things :  First,  there  can  be  no  social  gain  that  does 
not  entail  somewhere,  on  the  whole  community  or  on  a  class, 
the  break-up  of  long-established  relations,  interests,  and  occu- 
pations, and  the  necessity  of  a  fnore  or  less  difficult  read- 
justment. Second,  the  increase  of  social  activity,  which  is 
the  only  phase  of  progress  that  most  people  ever  see  at  all, 
may  so  exceed  the  rate  of  constructive  readjustment  that  the 
end  is  disorganization  and  ruin. 

For  the  further  examination  of  these  propositions,  let  us 
translate  them  from  physical  terms  into  the  language  of  feel- 
ing. This  is  legitimate;  because  the  destruction  of  familiar 
relations  and  the  necessity  of  establishing  new  ones  are 
known  immediately  in  consciousness  in  terms  of  hardship  or 
suffering,  while  any  disorganization  of  social  or  of  individual 
life  involves  the  pain  of  moral  retrogression.  The  limitations 
of  progress,  then,  are  these :  First,  there  can  be  no  social 
progress,  and  therefore  no  evolution  of  ethical  personality, 
except  at  the  price  of  an  absolute,  but  not  necessarily  a  rela- 
tive, increase  of  suffering.  Second,  if  the  increase  of  social 
activity,  which  is  one  phase  of  progress,  becomes  dispro- 
portionate to  the  constructive  reorganization  of  social  rela- 
tionships, which  is  the  complementary  phase,  the  increase 
of  suffering  will  become  degeneration  and  moral  evil. 

Such  limitations  are  not  a  cheering  aspect  of  social  prog- 
ress ;  but  their  reality  is  fully  established  in  historical  and 
in  statistical  fact,  and  they  sharply  define  our  ethical  obliga- 
tions. The  first  of  these  sobering  propositions  has  to  be 
made  a  shade  darker  still.  The  suffering  that  progress  costs 
is  borne  for  the  most  part  vicariously.  The  classes  who  are 
displaced,  whose  interests  and  occupations  are  broken  up  by 
the  relentless  course  of  change,  are  not  the  ones  w^ho  secure 


78  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

the  joys  of  richer  and  ampler  life.  That  which  enormously 
benefits  mankind  is  too  often  the  irretrievable  ruin  of  the 
few.  For  illustration,  one  need  not  be  confined  to  the  familiar 
facts  of  the  wasting  of  barbarian  peoples  before  the  advance 
of  civilization,  or  of  the  sacrifice  of  life  in  national  self-defence. 
The  history  of  industrial  progress  affords  examples  quite  as 
striking,  and  essentially  more  significant,  since  they  show 
that  after  society  has  settled  down  to  the  quiet  occupations 
of  peace,  the  fundamental  conditions  of  its  development  re- 
main unchanged.  In  reviewing  them,  the  sociologist  expects 
to  find  that  the  minority  which  thus  suffers  the  pains  of 
progress  is  composed  mainly  of  the  most  unprogressive 
elements  of  the  population,  and  he  is  not  disappointed. 
But  he  finds  evidences  also  that  to  some  extent  the  sufferers 
are  recruited  by  victims  of  pure  misfortune,  whose  undoing 
has  been  caused  neither  by  their  nature  nor  by  their  conduct. 
When  in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  the  growth 
of  towns,  money  payments,  and  the  commutation  of  week 
work  loosened  the  bonds  of  custom  and  law  that  had  held 
the  serf  to  the  manor,  the  entire  commonwealth  of  England 
experienced  an  economic  prosperity  never  before  known. 
Population  and  wealth  increased,  and  the  free  tenants,  as  a 
class,  rose  steadily  in  social  position.  They  could  cultivate 
more  or  less  land,  or  engage  in  trade  and  obtain  municipal 
charters.  But  the  economic  equality  of  an  earlier  day  had 
disappeared.  The  growth  of  population  brought  men  into 
the  world  for  whom  there  were  places  enough,  and  more  than 
enough,  but  not  places  already  allotted  to  them  in  the  social 
order.  They  were  places  that  had  to  be  discovered  by  intel- 
ligence and  enterprise,  qualities  that  are  not  possessed  by  all 
men  equally.  The  full  virgate  of  land  was  no  longer  secured 
by  customary  law  to  each  family.  Since  the  energetic  and 
strong  could  control  more,  the  easy-going  and  weak  had  to 
get  on  with  less.  In  the  towns  the  far-seeing  and  forehanded 
quickly  monopolized  trade  and  the  more  profitable  crafts. 
And  so,  while  this  comparative  freedom  of  enterprise  stimu- 
lated activity  in  a  hundred  ways  that  made  England,  as  a 
nation^  richer  and  stronger,  it  destroyed  the  old  economic 


THE  COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  79 

footing  of  the  less  competent  members  of  society,  and  left 
them  to  struggle  on,  thenceforth,  as  a  wage-earning  class. 

Two  hundred  years  later,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  society 
was  again  transformed  by  the  results  of  geographical  dis- 
covery. Free  capital  and  foreign  commerce  •quickened  in- 
dustry and  thought  into  intense  and  brilliant  life.  "  It  was 
indeed  a  stirring  time,"  writes  Hyndman,  obliged  to  admit  that 
this  period,  which  he  calls  the  "  iron  age  "  of  the  peasantry 
and  wage  classes,  was,  nevertheless,  one  of  marvellous  prog- 
ress in  other  respects.  "  A  new  v/orld  was  being  discovered 
in  art  and  in  science  in  Europe,  as  well  as  in  actual  existence 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  .  .  .  Never  before  had  so 
great  an  impulse  been  given  to  human  enterprise  and  human 
imagination."  But  the  splendour  had  its  23rice,  a  price  that 
socialists  like  Hyndman  have  superficially  described  and  most 
imperfectly  understood.  Political  integration  had  been  going 
on.  The  struggle  of  contending  factions  had  been  costly, 
and  the  reestablished  national  life,  with  its  manifold  activ- 
ities, was  more  costly.  Barons  discharged  the  bands  of  re- 
tainers that  were  no  longer  needed  in  civil  strife.  To  better 
their  fortunes,  the  great  lords  enclosed  common  lands  that 
had  been  freely  used  by  the  yeomanry,  and  began  evicting 
tenants  to  convert  agricultural  lands  into  the  sheep  pastures 
that  required  little  labour  and  returned  a  quick  money  income 
from  sales  of  wool  in  Flanders.  Now  the  misery  of  the  people 
thus  displaced  and  forced  into  wage  labour  or  vagabondage, 
was  not  due  to  any  actual  lack  of  land  or  of  industrial  oppor- 
tunity. There  remained  land  enough  and  to  spare,  notwith- 
standing enclosures  and  evictions,  had  it  been  used  rightly ; 
while  the  development  of  manufactures  and  of  commerce  had 
only  begun.  If  they  had  possessed  the  knowledge  and  the 
will  to  cultivate  arable  land  more  intensively,  they  could  not 
have  been  driven  from  the  soil ;  if  there  had  been  a  free  mo- 
bility of  labour,  they  could  have  found  employment  quickly 
in  the  best,  instead  of  tardily  in  the  worst  markets,  as  too  often 
happened;  if  the  organizing  ability  of  employers  had  been 
greater,  the  best  markets  would  more  quickly  have  found 
them.     But  the  social  value  of  land  had  become  too  great  for 


80  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

their  wasteful  methods :  they  had  to  change  or  go.  That 
knowledge  might  increase,  that  freedom  to  come  and  go 
might  be  established,  that  the  organization  of  enterprise  might 
be  perfected,  it  was  necessary  that  just  these  economic  and 
social  changes,  which  accomplished  so  much  ruin,  should  take 
place.  Consequently,  if  the  world  was  to  become  a  larger 
and  a  better  place  for  the  alert,  on-moving  many,  the  sacrifice 
of  the  sluggish  had  to  be. 

The  industrial  revolution  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth 
century  again  occasioned  displacements  of  labour,  that  bore 
more  distinctly  the  character  of  misfortunes  to  those  who  were 
injured  by  them.  No  degree  of  skill,  enterprise,  or  assiduity 
could  have  enabled  the  handicraftsmen  to  hold  their  own  in 
competition  with  power-machinery  and  the  steam-engine. 
They  could  do  nothing  but  leave  their  shops  to  wind  and 
weather,  and  begin  life  over,  on  new  terms,  in  factory  towns. 
How  many  thousands  of  them  never  fully  reestablished 
themselves,  how  many  succumbed  to  illness  or  even  to 
actual  starvation  before  economic  reorganization  was  fairly 
completed,  the  reports  of  parliamentary  inquiries  bear  wit- 
ness. Yet  an  unprecedented  increase  of  population  was 
proof  that,  on  the  whole,  the  masses  of  the  people  had  never 
been  so  prosijerous.  Before  1751  the  largest  decennial  in- 
crease had  been  three  per  cent;  before  1781  it  did  not 
exceed  six  per  cent.  Then,  all  at  once,  it  rose,  decade  by 
decade,  to  nine,  eleven,  fourteen,  and  finally,  between  1811 
and  1821,  to  eighteen  per  cent.  At  the  present  time  the  dis- 
placement of  manual  labour  by  machinery  is  incessant,  and 
less  than  in  any  previous  period  is  the  suffering  visited  on 
the  least  valuable  portion  of  the  population,  since  not  infre- 
quently it  is  men  of  a  higher  standard  of  life  who  are  forced 
out  by  the  competition  of  a  lower  type.  Nevertheless,  so 
enormous  has  been  the  net  gain  from  improved  methods 
of  production  that  the  consequences  of  displacement  are 
immeasurably  less  serious  than  they  were  a  century  ago. 
The  chances  of  finding  reemployment  quickly  are,  for  com- 
petent men,  far  greater  than  they  have  been  at  any  former 
time ;  and  the  period  of  search  is  made  endurable  by  accumu- 


THE   COSTS   OF  PROGRESS  81 

lated  savings  and  varied  forms  of  aid.  All  in  all,  industrial 
history  discloses  a  progressive  diminution  of  the  proportion  of 
inevitable  suffering  mixed  with  the  gains  of  progress.  But 
the  absolute  increase  remains.  The  personnel  of  the  dis- 
placed class  changes  more  rapidly  than  in  earlier  times,  but 
the  class,  as  a  class,  is  endlessly  renewed.  As  a  class,  it  can 
never  disappear,  so  long  as  progress  continues. 

Such,  in  its  simplest  statement,  is  the  law  of  the  cost  of 
progress.  "  He  that  increaseth  knowledge  increaseth  sorrow." 
Whatever  augments  well-being  destroys  some  livelihood.  As 
an  abstract  proposition,  no  well-informed  student  of  social 
phenomena  would  call  this  truth  in  question.  But,  unfortu- 
nately, the  law-makers,  the  social  reformers,  and  the  moralists 
have  not  bound  it  upon  their  fingers  nor  written  it  upon  the 
tables  of  their  hearts.  They  legislate,  reform,  and  advise, 
forgetful  that  their  wisest  endeavours  can  be  at  the  best 
only  "  something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help  " ;  and  the 
world  goes  on,  therefore,  not  only  deceiving  itself  with 
dreams,  but  wasting  its  resources  on  impossible  undertakings. 

For  this  principle  is  one  that  would  make  the  instant 
quietus  of  many  vain  questionings  if  it  were  an  ever-present 
element  in  our  thinking.  The  poor  have  been  always  with 
us.  Must  they  be  with  us  always  ?  Or  may  we  hope  that 
economic  prosperity  and  social  justice  will  one  day  mete  out 
comfort,  if  not  abundance,  to  all  ?  Not  unless  we  can  attain 
"finality  in  a  world  of  change."  Not  unless  there  is  a  definite 
limit  to  the  intellectual  and  moral  progress  of  the  race ;  for 
the  conditions  that  would  eliminate  poverty  from  the  earth 
would  infallibly  terminate  the  life  that  is  more  than  meat,  in 
society  first,  and  afterwards  in  individuals.  Unless  all  men 
could  be  made  equally  prudent,  equally  judicious,  neither  an 
increase  of  wealth  nor  changes  in  its  distribution  could  pre- 
vent the  occasional  sweeping  away  of  possessions  by  the 
social  rearrangements  that  progress  demands.  The  relative 
dimensions  of  poverty  will  contract  and  its  misery  will  be 
alleviated,  but  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  it  will  ever 
wholly  disappear. 

Will  multitudes  of  human  beings  remain  always  in  prac- 


82  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

tical  subjection  to  individual  or  corporate  masters  ?  Can  we 
not  abolish  economic  slavery,  as  we  have  abolished  legal 
bondage  ?  Aristotle's  argument  that  slavery  inheres  in  civ- 
ilization has  shocked  the  sensitive  and  amused  the  shallow, 
while  both  have  quoted  it  to  show  what  foolishness  a  philos- 
opher can  teach.  But  to  the  wise  it  will  ever  remain  a  pro- 
found though  mournful  truth.  Essential  slavery  has  aptly 
been  described  as  the  estate  of  a  man  who  "can't  get  any 
freedom."  We  have  changed  the  legal  conditions  under 
which  millions  of  men  and  women  perform  ill-requited  tasks 
of  daily  toil.  To  some  extent  we  have  diminished  the  total 
magnitude  of  their  misery,  if  not  in  every  individual  case  its 
extreme  intensity.  But  we  have  not  enabled  them  to  get 
actual  freedom.  We  have  made  it  unlawful  to  buy  and  sell 
their  persons.  The  master  can  no  longer  obtain  control  of  the 
labourer's  time  and  strength,  and  therefore  of  his  freedom,  from 
any  legal  principal  but  the  labourer  himself.  The  labourer 
cannot  even  sell  his  own  freedom  in  perpetuity.  But  he  can 
sell  any  portion  of  it,  or  all  of  it  subdivided  into  portions,  for 
a  limited  period  of  time,  or  for  his  whole  life  subdivided  into 
periods.  Practically,  therefore,  any  man  or  woman  may  sell 
his  or  her  entire  freedom  for  life,  and  practically  thousands 
of  both  men  and  women  are  compelled  by  hunger  to  make 
the  sale  on  terms  that  are  personally  degrading.  Yet  that  in- 
terpretation of  this  melancholy  fact  which  attributes  it  to  the 
Avickedness  and  greed  of  a  capital-owning  class  is  a  tissue  of 
economic  and  sociological  fallacies.  Another  interpretation, 
which  explains  it  as  unavoidable  misfortune,  becomes  a  perver- 
sion of  history  when,  in  the  desire  to  prove  that  the  world 
has  grown  better,  it  assumes  that  ancient  legal  slavery  was  a 
consciously  devised  oppression.  Neither  oppression  nor  greed 
has  been  at  any  time  the  first  cause  of  legal  bondage  or  of 
economic  dependence.  Both  are  secondary  causes,  induced 
by  experiences  with  a  slavery  already  existent. 

Modern  civilization  does  not  require,  it  does  not  even  need, 
the  drudgery  of  needle-women  or  the  crushing  toil  of  men  in 
a  score  of  life-destroying  occupations.  If  these  wretched  be- 
ings should  drop  out  of  existence  and  no  others  stood  ready 


THE  COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  83- 

to  fill  their  places,  the  economic  activities  of  the  world  would 
not  greatly  suffer.  A  thousand  devices  latent  in  inventive 
brains  would  quickly  make  good  any  momentary  loss.  The 
true  view  of  the  facts  is  that  these  people  continue  to  exist 
after  the  kinds  of  work  that  they  know  how  to  perform  have 
ceased  to  be  of  any  considerable  value  to  society.  Society 
continues  to  employ  them  for  a  remuneration  not  exceeding 
the  cost  of  getting  the  work  done  in  some  other  and  perhaps 
better  way.  The  economic  law  here  referred  to  is  one  that 
has  been  too  much  neglected  in  scientific  discussion.  It 
ought  to  be  repeated  and  illustrated  at  every  opportunity,  for 
at  present  it  stands  in  direct  contradiction  to  current  pre- 
possessions. We  are  told  incessantly  that  unskilled  labour 
creates  the  wealth  of  the  world.  It  would  be  nearer  the  truth 
to  say  that  large  classes  of  unskilled  labour  hardly  create 
their  own  subsistence.  The  labourers  that  have  no  adaptive- 
ness,  that  bring  no  new  ideas  to  their  work,  that  have  no  sus- 
picion of  the  next  best  thing  to  turn  to  in  an  emergency, 
might  much  better  be  identified  with  the  dependent  classes 
than  with  the  wealth-creators.  Precisely  the  same  economic 
law  offers  the  true  interpretation  of  ancient  slavery.  In  strict- 
ness, civilization  did  not  rest  on  slavery.  It  was  not  in  any 
true  sense  maintained  by  slavery.  The  conditions  that  created 
the  civilization  created  economic  dependence,  and  they  are 
working  in  the  same  way,  with  similar  results,  to-day.  An- 
cient civilization  accepted  the  dependence  and  utilized  it  in 
the  crude  form  of  slavery.  Modern  civilization  accepts  and 
utilizes  it  in  the  slightly  more  refined  form  of  the  wages 
system. 

Certain  great  social  tasks  of  creative  organization  have 
always  confronted  our  race.  The  enforced  effort  to  achieve 
them  has  been  history's  great  competitive  examination.  The 
slaves  and  serfs  have  been  those  who  have  failed.  The  first 
great  necessity  was  social  unity  —  the  power  to  act  together 
in  a  disciplined  way  —  and  the  first  slaves  were  those  who 
could  not  create  a  sufficiently  coherent  social  organization  to 
sustain  a  growing  civilization.  They  had  to  make  way  before 
others  who  were  equal  to  that  great  achievement,  and  they 


84  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

became  slaves,  not  solely  nor  chiefly  because  of  a  conqueror's 
tyranny,  but  primarily  because  slavery  or  serfdom  was  prac- 
tically the  only  economic  disposition  that  could  be  made  of 
them.  To-day  social  unity  has  been  in  good  measure  estab- 
lished, and  the  world  has  entered  on  yet  larger  undertakings. 
The  condition  and  assurance  of  freedom  to-day  is  the  ability 
to  devise  new  things,  to  create  new  opportunities,  to  make 
not  only  two  blades  of  grass  grow  where  one  grew  before,  but 
to  make  a  hundred  kinds  of  grass  grow  where  before  grew 
none  at  all.  Accordingly,  the  practically  unfree  task-workere 
of  this  present  time  are  those  who,  unaided,  can  accomplish 
none  of  these  new  things.  They  are  those  who  might  do 
well  in  old  familiar  ways,  but  who  have  nothing  to  turn  to 
when  their  ways  cease  to  be  of  value  to  the  world.  To  live, 
they  must  force  depreciated  services  upon  societ}'^,  on  any 
terms  that  society  can  continue  to  allow.  They  are  unfree 
task-workers,  not  because  society  chooses  to  oppress  them,  but 
because  society  has  not  yet  devised  or  stumbled  upon  any 
other  disposition  to  make  of  them.  Civilization,  therefore, 
is  not  cruel :  rather  it  is  ever  supporting  and  trying  to  utilize 
the  wrecks  and  failures  of  its  own  imperfect  past. 

But  it  may  be  said :  All  these  negative  conclusions  are 
based  on  the  assumption  that  the  rdgirae  of  individualism  is 
to  continue.  Might  not  redemption  from  poverty  and  depend- 
ence be  possible  under  the  reign  of  a  beneficent  socialism  ? 

Two  systems  of  socialism  have  been  proposed,  if  we  classify 
them  according  to  plans  of  organization,  and  two  if  we  classify 
with  reference  to  a  proposed  division  of  wealth.  According 
to  one  plan,  industrial  administration  would  be  centralized ; 
according  to  the  other  it  would  be  decentralized.  Either  of 
these  systems  might  be  communistic,  incomes  being  made 
equal  throughout  society,  or  either  might  be  non-communistic, 
the  services  of  different  men  being  valued  unequally. 

Decentralized  socialism  would  merely  substitute  competing 
communities  for  competing  private  organizations.  It  would 
follow  that  some  communities  would  prosper  more  than  others ; 
and  that  some,  therefore,  would  presently  come  under  sub- 
jection to  the  others.    A  centralized  socialism  would  probably 


THE   COSTS   OF  PROGRESS  85 

attempt  to  establish  a  rigid  and  final  system  of  occupations, 
in  the  hope  of  preventing  industrial  derangements.  If  success- 
ful, the  attempt  would  make  an  end  of  progress.  If  no  such 
attempt  were  made,  men  would  be  thrown,  as  now,  from  time 
to  time,  out  of  that  ideal  arrangement  in  which  each  did  the 
work  to  which  he  was  best  adapted ;  and  therefore,  if  rewarded 
in  proportion  to  their  services,  the  unfortunates  would  re- 
ceive, as  now,  only  the  pittance  that  would  barely  support 
life.  The  one  difference  would  be  that  society  in  its  corpo- 
rate capacity  would  assume  the  responsibility  of  finding  new 
work  for  them ;  but,  rewarding  them  according  to  perform- 
ance only,  it  would  practically  have  them  in  absolute  sub- 
jection. They  would  only  have  exchanged  masters,  and 
slavery  to  individuals  for  slavery  to  society. 

If,  vainly  hoping  to  escape  from  this  dilemma,  society 
should  not  only  assume  the  responsibility  of  finding  new  op- 
portunities for  the  displaced,  but  should  undertake  to  com- 
pensate them  for  the  buffe tings  and  losses  that  they  had 
suffered  by  reason  of  industrial  changes,  and  regardless  of 
their  resulting  worth  to  the  commonwealth,  it  would  radically 
transform  the  character  of  its  socialism.  Rewarding  no  longer 
according  to  service,  the  socialism  would  become  communism. 
Men  of  unequal  power  to  work  and  to  use,  of  widely  varying 
capacities  to  enjoy,  would  share  alike  the  common  product  of 
their  labour.  Only  one  result  could  follow.  Men  of  animal 
natures,  having  as  large  incomes  as  men  of  a  higher  mental 
and  moral  development,  would  spend  inevitably  a  dispropor- 
tionate share  on  the  grosser  sorts  of  gratification.  Materialism 
of  life,  with  all  its  moral  debasement,  would  be  the  unprofit- 
able substitute  for  economic  hardship.  Income  can  never  be 
greatly  disproportionate  to  the  social  value  of  a  man's  work, 
talents,  culture,  and  virtues,  without  degrading  him.  If  it  be 
said  that  at  present  many  men  whose  whole  social  value  is  of 
the  slightest  do  have,  in  fact,  fabulous  incomes,  which  social- 
ism would  diminish,  the  reply  is  that  there  are  not,  accurately 
speaking,  many  such  men,  and  that  there  would  be  no  appar- 
ent advantage  in  substituting  a  systematic  breeding  of  dull 
sensualists  for  the   sporadic   genesis   of   more   brilliant   de- 


86  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

bauchees.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  men  and  women  of  this 
class  exemplify  and  verify  the  law.  Their  lives  lend  the 
sting  of  truth  to  the  saying,  "  How  hardly  shall  they  that 
have  riches  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God  ! " 

Shall  we,  then,  conclude  that  an  unrestrained  individualism, 
eagerly  working  out  those  social  changes  that  seem  advan- 
tageous to  their  promoters,  can  achieve  limitless  progress, 
and  that  only  harm  could  come  from  any  checking  of  the  rate 
or  intensity  of  its  activity  ?  Shall  we  assume  that  the  inevi- 
table costs  of  progress,  in  economic  loss  and  human  suffering, 
must  be  uncomplainingly  borne  by  those  on  whom  they  fall, 
because  all  private  reforms  are  Utopian,  and  all  public  regula- 
tion of  industry  or  assumption  of  its  losses,  in  accordance 
with  any  form  of  socialism  or  of  communism,  would  be  worse 
than  folly  ?  Must  we  acknowledge  that  society  has  no  moral 
responsibility  for  the  consequences  of  the  processes  and 
changes  by  which  its  own  well-being  and  ethical  life  are 
maintained  ?  Shall  we  give  ourselves  over  to  the  belief  that 
laissez  faire  is  the  last  word  of  social  science  and  the  first  law 
of  ethics  ?  Assuredly  and  most  emphatically,  no  !  Nothing 
in  the  conditions  of  progress,  as  set  forth  in  the  foregoing 
study,  so  much  as  hints  at  other  than  negative  answers  to 
these  questions.  On  the  contrary,  if  the  law  of  evolution  as 
exemplified  in  human  society  has  been  rightly  understood, 
we  shall  be  prepared  to  find  certain  very  real  limitations  of 
the  number  and  extent  of  the  social,  political,  or  industrial 
metamorphoses  which,  within  a  given  period,  can  combine 
in  genuine  progress.  We  shall  look  to  discover  a  growing 
necessity  for  integral  social  action.  We  shall  expect  to  hear 
the  ethical  consciousness  of  humanity  declaring  that  society 
is  morally  responsible  for  the  costs  of  its  existence. 

In  dynamic  phenomena  of  every  kind  results  are  a  func- 
tion, as  the  mathematicians  express  it,  of  time.  With  a  given 
amount  of  energy,  you  can  go  in  an  hour  or  a  day  a  given 
distance.  Prolong  the  time,  and  you  can  increase  the  distance. 
In  the  inconceivably  complicated  dynamic  phenomena  of  life, 
growth,  organization,  and  development,  are  all  functions  of 
time.     Force    the   rate   of   transformation,  and   you   simply 


THE  COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  87 

prevent  the  establishment  of  some  relations  of  integration, 
differentiation,  or  segregation,  necessary  to  complete  organi- 
zation. And  if  organization  is  incomplete,  there  is  a  limit  to 
the  life-possibilities  of  the  organism:  it  can  perform  less 
and  enjoy  less  while  it  lives,  and  its  dissolution  will  begin 
earlier.  Society  on  a  great  scale,  as  the  individual  life  on  a 
smaller  scale,  exemplifies  all  these  laws.  If  social  evolution 
is  to  continue,  and  the  ethical  life  of  man  is  to  become  larger 
and  richer  with  increasing  happiness,  social  organization  in 
the  future  will  be,  not  simpler  than  it  is  now,  but  immeasura- 
bly more  complex.  In  its  larger  being,  individualism,  social- 
ism, and  communism  will  not  be  the  mutually  exclusive 
things  that  they  now  seem  to  be.  There  will  be  not  a 
narrower  but  a  wider  field  for  individual  effort,  not  less  but 
more  personal  liberty.  At  the  same  time,  more  enterprises 
will  be  brought  under  public  control ;  and  more  of  the  good 
things  of  life  will  be  distributed,  like  the  sunshine  and  the  air, 
in  free  and  equal  portions.  The  displaced  men  and  women 
will  be  more  quickly  reestablished  than  now,  their  services 
will  be  made  of  greater  value,  and  society  will  assume  a 
larger  portion  of  the  burden  of  their  misfortunes.  All  these 
things  are  implications  of  the  second  of  the  limitations  of 
progress  to  which  attention  has  been  called,  —  namely,  that 
if  the  increase  of  social  activity  becomes  disproportionate  to 
the  constructive  reorganization  of  social  relationships,  the 
increase  of  suffering  will  become  degeneration  and  moral 
evil.     Some  of  the  facts  in  evidence  must  be  briefly  noted. 

Dazzled  by  the  magnificent  results  of  material  progress 
already  achieved,  men  throw  themselves  into  the  great  enter- 
prises of  modern  life  with  the  zest  of  an  ambition  that  knows 
no  bounds.  The  rate  of  industrial,  professional,  political,  and 
intellectual  activity  becomes  proportionate  to  the  swiftness 
of  electricity  and  steam.  The  intense  struggle  for  success 
causes  three  great  demographic  changes  which  profoundly 
modify  the  social  conditions  of  existence. 

The  first  is  a  phenomenal  increase  of  population,  following 
an  enormous  production  of  wealth.  AVe  have  already  seen 
how  improved  industrial  conditions  in  England,  in  the  first 


88  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

part  of  this  century,  were  followed  instantly  by  an  unprece- 
dented increase  of  population.  At  the  present  time,  the  increase 
of  population  in  England  and  Wales,  by  births  in  excess  of 
deaths,  is  not  less  than  one  thousand  souls  daily.  The  expan- 
sion of  the  population  of  the  United  States  from  3,929,214  in 
1790  to  62,622,250  in  1890,  while  the  population  of  Europe, 
in  spite  of  enormous  emigration,  has  been  rapidly  multiplying, 
is  a  phenomenon  that  Longstaff  accurately  describes  as  abso- 
lutely unique  in  history. 

The  second  change  referred  to  is  a  rapid  concentration  of 
this  increasing  population  in  large  cities,  where  the  great 
prizes  of  worldly  success  are  striven  for  and  won.  This 
movement  and  its  consequences  are  already  attracting  the 
serious  attention  of  sociologists  to  the  grave  problems  they 
present.  Of  the  1000  daily  births  in  excess  of  deaths  in  Eng- 
land and  Wales,  408  are  born  in  the  seventy-six  largest  cities 
and  towns,  and  592  in  the  country ;  but  only  437  remain  in 
the  country-places  of  their  birth :  112  migrate  to  the  cities, 
and  43  to  foreign  lands.  In  the  United  States,  in  1790,  3.35 
per  cent  of  the  population  lived  in  cities  of  8000  or  more  in- 
habitants. Now  29.12  per  cent  live  in  cities  of  equal  or 
larger  size ;  while  in  the  Atlantic  coast  division,  comprising 
the  New  England  States,  New  York,  New  Jersey,  Pennsyl- 
vania, and  Maryland,  more  than  one-half  of  the  population  are 
urban  inhabitants.  This  means  that  population  is  flowing 
into  the  cities  much  faster  than  the  reorganization  of  the 
manifold  phases  of  town  life,  including  municipal  government, 
is  making  urban  conditions  as  wholesome  as  those  of  the 
country.  The  result  is  that  continual  drain  upon  the  fresh 
vitality  of  the  country,  to  meet  the  incessant  destruction  of 
vitality  in  the  towns,  which  makes  the  depopulation  of  rural 
sections  so  grave  a  matter  for  the  future  of  civilization.  '"By 
a  curious  perversion,"  says  Longstaff,  "  the  advantage  of 
towns  is  said  to  be  'life.'  There  is  in  truth  more  life  in  a 
given  space,  more  high  pressure,  more  rush ;  but  it  is  the 
rush  of  a  clock  running  down." 

A  displacement,  in  certain  industries,  of  men  of  a  relatively 
high  standard  of  life  by  cheaper  men  of  a  lower  standard, 


THE   COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  89 

more  rapidly  than  the  better  men  can  find  places  in  industries 
requiring  relatively  intelligent  labour,  is  the  third  demographic 
consequence  of  intense  activity.  The  normal  displacement, 
as  has  been  shown,  is  of  the  dull,  mechanical,  non-adaptable 
man  by  a  more  versatile  competitor.  But  industries  are  not 
all  of  the  same  character.  Some  are  more  progressive  in  their 
methods  than  others,  because  they  contribute  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  continually  developing  wants,  which  create  a  varying 
demand,  while  others  minister  to  wants  that  are  relatively 
stationary.  In  some,  therefore,  the  high-priced  man  is  the 
cheap  man ;  in  others  the  low-priced  man  is  the  cheaper 
man.  Economists  who  have  contended  that  high  wages  mean 
a  low  cost  of  labour,  and  those  who  have  affirmed  the  con- 
trary, are  alike  half  right  and  half  wrong.  They  have  been 
observing  different  classes  of  industries.  Under  a  perfectly 
uniform,  self-regulating  circulation  of  labour,  the  versatile 
man,  of  the  high  standard  of  life,  would  displace  the  cheaper 
man  in  one  class  of  industries,  and  the  duller,  cheaper  man 
would  displace  higher-priced  labour  in  the  other  class.  Under 
normal  progress  the  major  displacement  would  be  of  inferior  by 
superior  men.  But  unless  economic  evolution,  creating  new 
wants  and  varying  demands,  and  reorganizing  industry  to 
supply  them,  is  going  on  more  rapidly  than  the  growth  of 
social  unrest,  or  of  those  political  policies  that  so  often  force 
vast  hordes  of  destitute  people  into  migrations  that  have  no 
definite  destination  —  as  in  the  case  of  the  Russian  Jews  — 
there  may  be  a  cruel  and  ruinous  substitution  of  the  lower 
for  the  higher  grade  of  workman,  prematurely  and  far  beyond 
normal  limits.  It  would  not  be  unfortunate  that  the  Irish- 
man should  displace  the  native  American,  that  the  French 
Canadian  should  in  turn  displace  the  Irishman,  and  that 
finally  the  Hungarian  or  the  Pole  should  displace  the  French 
Canadian,  if  the  men  of  the  higher  standard  of  life  could 
immediately  step  into  industries  of  a  higher  grade.  But 
when  this  is  not  possible,  when  they  can  live  only  by  sinking 
to  the  level  of  their  more  brutal  competitors,  it  is  an  evil 
of  great  magnitude. 

Under  such  circumstances,  the  intense  competition  of  the 


so  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

struggle  for  success,  due  partly  to  ambition,  but  primarily  to 
the  quickening  rate  of  industrial  and  social  transformation, 
piles  up  in  the  community  a  frightful  wreckage  of  physical 
and  moral  degeneration.  Every  sociologist,  every  statistician, 
has  been  struck  with  the  seemingly  anomalous  fact  that  sui- 
cide, insanity,  crime,  and  vagabondage,  increase  with  wealth, 
education,  and  refinement;  that  they  are,  in  a  word,  as  Morselli 
says,  phenomena  of  civilization.  But  the  fact  is  not  altogether 
anomalous,  after  all.  These  things  are  a  part  of  the  cost  of 
progress,  forms  that  the  cost  of  progress  takes  when  the  rate 
of  social  activity  exceeds  the  rate  of  constructive  reorganiza- 
tion. Quicken  the  pace  of  a  moving  army,  and  the  number 
of  the  unfortunates  who  will  fall  exhausted  by  the  way  will 
be  disproportionately  increased.  Besides  quickening  the  pace, 
let  discipline  lapse  and  organization  break  up,  and  the  number 
of  stragglers  will  be  more  than  doubled.  Increase  the  strain 
of  any  kind  of  competitive  work  and  derange  the  conditions 
under  which  it  is  done,  and  the  percentage  of  failures  will 
rise.  That  this  is  the  far-reaching  explanation  of  the  phys- 
ical, intellectual,  and  moral  degeneration  that  we  behold  on 
every  side,  notwithstanding  a  marvellous  multiplication  of  all 
the  influences  that  make  for  good,  is  not  to  be  doubted  by  one 
who  will  patiently  study  the  facts  recorded  in  moral  and  vital 
statistics.  Thus,  the  number  of  suicides  in  Italy  was  29  per 
1,000,000  inhabitants  in  1864,  when  her  people  were  just  en- 
tering on  a  new  and  larger  life  under  national  unity;  while  in 
1877  it  had  risen  to  40  per  1,000,000.  In  France,  in  1827  the 
number  was  48  per  1,000,000;  but  before  1875  it  had  risen  to 
155.  In  England  a  rate  of  62  in  1830  had  risen  to  73  in 
1876.  In  Saxony  a  rate  of  158  in  1836  had  risen  to  391  in 
1877.1  Is  it  any  wonder  that  Morselli,  from  whose  laborious 
monograph  these  figures  are  taken,  says  that  "in  the  aggre- 

1  Later  figures,  given  by  Maurice  Block  ("L'Europe  Politique  et  Sociale," 
deuxifeme  Mition,  1893,  p.  460),  are  as  follows  :  Italy,  1888,  53  per  1,000,000 
inhabitants,  1889,  47  per  1,000,000  ;  France,  1889,  212  per  1,000,000  ;  Enoland, 
1889,  80  per  1,000,000.  In  Massachusetts  the  proportion  was  69  per  1,000,000 
in  the  period  1851-55,  and  90.9  in  the  period  1881-85.  See  "Statistics  of 
Suicide  in  New  England,"  by  Davis  R.  Dewey,  Publications  of  the  American 
Statistical  Association,  June-September,  1892. 


THE   COSTS  OF  PEOGRESS  91 

gate  of  the  civilized  states  of  Europe  and  America,  the  fre- 
quency of  suicide  shows  a  growing  and  uniform  increase,  so 
that  generally  voluntary  death  since  the  beginning  of  the 
century  has  increased  and  goes  on  increasing  more  rapidly 
than  the  geometrical  augmentation  of  the  population  and  of 
the  general  mortality  "  ?  Elsewhere  he  says,  and  his  figures 
prove,  that  "it  is  those  countries  which  possess  a  higher 
standard  of  general  culture  which  furnish  the  largest  contin- 
gent of  voluntary  deaths,"  and  that  the  proportion  of  suicides 
is  greater  in  the  compact  population  of  urban  centres  than 
among  the  more  scattered  inhabitants  of  the  country. 

The  phenomena  of  insanity  follow  the  same  general  laws, 
with  the  difference  that  the  abnormal  loneliness  of  isolated 
country  districts,  drained  of  their  population  and  social  re- 
sources by  migration  to  the  cities,  is  as  deleterious  as  the 
overcrowding  and  fierce  competition  of  towns.  According  to 
the  figures  of  the  eleventh  federal  census,  the  inmates  of 
public  asylums  and  hospitals  for  the  insane  were  2.10  per  1000 
inhabitants  in  the  North  Atlantic  division  and  2.25  per  1000  in 
the  Western  division.  It  is  in  these  sections  that  life  is  most 
intense.  In  the  North  Central  division  the  ratio  was  1.28  to 
1000,  in  the  South  Atlantic  division  the  ratio  was  1.27  to  1000, 
and  in  the  South  Central  division  it  was  only  0.71  to  1000. 
Some  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  larger  number  of  de- 
ranged persons  not  committed  to  public  institutions  in  -gome 
sections  than  in  others,  but  this  will  not  greatly  affect  the  in- 
terpretation of  the  figures  —  an  interpretation  fully  borne  out 
by  the  researches  of  specialists.  Maudsley,  for  example,  says, 
"  I  cannot  but  think  that  the  extreme  passion  for  getting  rich, 
absorbing  the  whole  energies  of  life,  predisposes  to  mental 
degeneracy  in  offspring,  either  to  moral  defect,  or  to  intellec- 
tual deficiency,  or  to  outbursts  of  positive  insanity." 

That  crime  is  an  effect  of  poverty  it  is  no  longer  possible  to 
believe,  since  it  varies  independently  of  poverty,  and  directly 
with  other  social  conditions  and  with  the  strain  of  progress. 
Thus,  serious  crimes,  including  theft,  are  not  more  frequent 
in  poor  than  in  wealthy  countries.  On  the  contrary,  in  Eng- 
land the  trials  for  theft  are  228  per  100,000  inhabitants  annu- 


92  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ally,  while  in  Ireland  they  are  but  101,  in  Hungary  82,  and 
in  Spain  74.  Everywhere,  too,  crimes  are  less  frequent  in 
winter,  when  the  hardships  of  poverty  are  most  grievous,  than 
in  summer,  when  they  are  more  easily  borne.  Again,  crime 
is  not  a  monopoly  of  the  poor,  since  all  classes  contribute  to 
our  jail  and  prison  population  in  very  nearly  exact  proportion 
to  their  total  numbers  ;  and  Professor  Falkner  has  shown  that 
in  the  United  States  serious  crime  is  more  frequently  com- 
mitted by  the  native  than  by  the  foreign-born.  On  the  other 
hand,  keener  competition  is  everywhere  followed  by  increas- 
ing criminality,  as  is  most  strikingly  shown  by  the  statistics 
of  criminality  among  women.  The  crimes  of  women  have 
been  heretofore  in  small  proportion  to  the  crimes  of  men,  but 
with  the  opening  of  hundreds  of  new  industrial  and  profes- 
sional opportunities  to  the  sex  hitherto  shielded  from  the 
fiercer  contentions  of  the  social  life-struggle,  the  figures  of 
arrests  and  commitments  of  women  show  a  sad  increase. 
"  In  all  countries  where  social  habits  and  customs  constrain 
women  to  lead  retiring  and  secluded  lives,"  says  Morrison, 
"  the  number  of  female  criminals  descends  to  a  minimum." 
Thus  in  Greece,  in  1889,  there  were  only  50  women  in  a  total 
prison  population  of  5023.  In  England,  on  the  other  hand, 
women  constitute  17  per  cent  of  the  whole  number  of  offend- 
ers ;  while  in  Scotland,  where  the  industrial  emancipation  of 
women  is  most  complete,  no  less  than  27  per  cent  of  the 
offences  tried  in  criminal  courts  in  1880  were  committed  by 
women,  and  in  1888  that  percentage  had  risen  to  37. 

Of  the  rapid  increase  of  vagabondage  with  social  unrest 
and  industrial  evolution,  but  a  word  need  be  said.  Professor 
McCook,  of  Trinity  College,  Hartford,  who  has  made  an  ex- 
haustive study  of  this  question,  finds  that  we  are  supporting 
in  this  country  an  army  of  48,848  tramps.  At  the  lowest 
estimate,  it  costs  to  feed  these  absolutely  worthless  wretches 
•'5^7,9o8,520  a  year.  Adding  their  hospital,  jail,  and  prison 
expenses,  the  total  becomes  $^9,000,000. 

The  end  of  these  things  would  be  social  disintegration  and 
paralysis,  but  for  a  reaction  that  they  start  in  the  public  mind. 
The  ethical  consciousness  of  society  is  aroused  and  unified  by 


THE  COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  93 

such  evidences  that  civilization  and  progress  are  not  an  un- 
mixed good.  More  imperative  daily  becomes  the  demand 
for  a  public  and  private  philanthropy  that  shall  be  governed 
by  the  results  of  scientific  inquiry ;  which  shall  work  no  longer 
at  cross  purposes,  but  shall  merge  their  plans  and  efforts  in  a 
unified  policy  to  ameliorate,  as  far  as  possible,  conditions 
that  man  can  never  wholly  remove,  but  which  he  can  easily 
make  worse.     How  far  can  this  demand  be  met  ? 

The  practical  solution  of  the  problem  depends  on  a  difficult 
combination  of  two  very  difficult  things.  The  first  is  to  con- 
vince one  set  of  people  that  society  ought  to  assume  the  costs 
of  its  progress,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  take  openly  the  respon- 
sibility for  replacing  the  displaced.  This  is  the  element  of 
truth  in  socialism.  We  have,  indeed,  made  some  progress  in 
this  direction.  Practically  and  theoretically  society  admitted 
the  obligation  when,  in  the  reigns  of  the  Tudors,  it  began  to 
supplement  private  and  ecclesiastical  charity  by  systems  of 
public  relief.  In  a  hundred  forms  of  legislation  and  adminis- 
tration, in  public  education,  in  the  multiplication  of  asylums 
and  hospitals,  in  a  thousand  modes  of  private  beneficence, 
the  duty  is  being  more  adequately  discharged  by  each  later 
generation.  But  we  are  yet  very  far  from  comprehending  its 
full  extent.  We  realize  but  faintly  how  far  the  incompetent 
and  impoverished  have  been  made  such  by  social  movements 
that  have  cut  them  off  from  any  possibility  of  personal  im- 
provement. The  second  difficulty  is  to  convince  another  set 
of  people  of  the  fallacy  of  a  cardinal  socialistic  notion  — 
namely,  that  industrial  derangements  can  be  prevented  in  a 
progressive  world ;  and,  further,  to  convince  them  that  the 
greatest  possible  compensation  of  thousands  of  able-bodied 
human  beings  who  are  relatively  useless  to  the  community, 
and,  therefore,  poor,  depends  upon  their  being  held  for  the 
while  in  practical  subjection  to  other  individuals  or  to  the 
commonwealth. 

We  have  heard  a  great  deal  in  recent  years  about  Christian 
socialism,  and  one  of  the  most  interesting  developments  in 
the  ecclesiastical  world  is  the  growing  belief  that  Christianity 
ought  to  prove  its  pretensions  by  demonstrating  its  power  to 


94  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

solve  social  problems.  It  is,  however,  noteworthy  that  in 
all  this  discussion  the  most  important  single  doctrine  that 
Christianity  has  to  contribute  to  social  science  has  been 
forgotten  or  ignored.  The  doctrine  referred  to  is  that  of 
the  distinction  between  those  who  are  free  from  the  law 
and  those  who  are  under  bondage  to  the  law.  The  key  to 
the  solution  of  the  social  problem  will  be  found  in  a  frank 
acceptance  of  the  fact  that  some  men  in  every  community 
are  inherently  progressive,  resourceful,  creative,  capable  of 
self-mastery  and  self-direction,  while  other  men,  capable  of 
none  of  these  things,  can  be  made  useful,  comfortable,  and 
essentially  free,  only  by  being  brought  under  bondage  to 
society  and  kept  under  mastership  and  discipline  until  they 
have  acquired  power  to  help  and  govern  themselves.  If 
one  should  say  that  we  all  believe  this  doctrine  —  that  it  is 
in  no  sense  new  —  the  necessary  reply  would  be  that  we 
nevertheless  habitually  disregard  it  in  every  matter  save 
the  juridical  distinction  between  the  law-abiding  and  the 
criminal.  We  accept  laissez  faire  as  the  expedient  rule  for 
all  men  and  all  industries  alike,  or  we  denounce  it  as 
bad  for  all  alike.  We  advocate  socialistic  methods  for  the 
entire  field  of  industry,  or  we  pronounce  them  impracticable 
for  any  part  of  it.  We  denounce  compulsory  education 
for  any  class  in  the  community,  or  we  insist  on  forcing  it 
upon  all  classes.  And  in  all  these  sayings  and  doings  we 
confound  unlike  things,  and  show  ourselves  irrational  in 
the  last  degree. 

What,  then,  in  concrete  detail,  are  some  of  the  ethical  obli- 
gations placed  upon  individuals  and  upon  society  by  the  con- 
ditions of  social  progress  ? 

The  law  that  the  progressive,  self-governing  members  of 
society  should  lay  on  themselves  must  include  at  least  three 
groups  of  duties.  First,  they  must  resist,  personally  and  in 
their  influence,  the  tendency  to  subordinate  every  higher  con- 
sideration to  that  mere  quickening  of  competitive  activity 
which  so  easily  goes  beyond  its  normal  function  of  means  to 
end,  and  becomes  an  irrational,  unjustifiable  end  in  itself. 
Especially  in  the  education  of  children  who  are  seen  to  be 


THE  COSTS  OF  PROGRESS  95 

ambitious  should  everything  that  savours  of  competition  be 
absolutely  put  away.  The  competitive  examination  of  such 
children  is  nothing  less  than  essential  crime,  essential  insan- 
ity, essential  idiocy,  for  all  these  things  will  be  among  its 
results.  Second,  they  must  resort  more  freely,  as  fortunately 
they  are  beginning  to  do,  to  country  life ;  and  especially  must 
they  provide  the  conditions  of  country  life  to  the  greatest 
possible  extent  for  children,  not  only  their  own  but  those  of 
the  city  poor.  Third,  they  must  cultivate  that  true  individu- 
ality in  the  consumption  of  wealth,  which  is  not  only  the 
mark  of  genuine  manliness  or  womanliness,  but  which  surely 
reacts  on  economic  demand  in  ways  that  give  a  competitive 
advantage  to  the  higher  industrial  qualities  of  men  whose 
own  standard  of  life  is  high. 

The  duties  that  society  must  discharge  in  its  relation  to 
the  general  conditions  of  progressive  activity,  and  to  its  mem- 
bers who  are  undeveloped  or  degenerate,  fall  also  into  three 
groups.  First,  society  must  assume  the  regulation  of  inter- 
national migration.  Each  nation  must  be  made  to  bear  the 
burden  of  pauperism,  ignorance,  and  degeneracy  caused  by 
its  own  progress  or  wrong-doing.  Society  must  also  assume 
the  regulation,  by  industrial  and  labour  legislation,  of  those 
industries  in  which  free  competition  displaces  the  better  man 
by  the  inferior.  Perhaps  in  time  some  of  these  industries 
may  advantageously  come  directly  under  public  manage- 
ment, as  socialism  proposes.  Second,  society  must  act  on 
the  fact  that  a  proportion  of  its  population  must  always  be 
practically  unfree,  by  extending  compulsory  education  to  the 
children  of  all  parents  who  are  unable  or  unwilling  to  pro- 
vide in  their  own  way  a  training  that  the  commonwealth  can 
approve.  This  education  should  be  as  perfectly  adapted  as 
kno\tledge,  money,  and  sincerity  of  purpose  can  make  it,  to 
the  work  of  fitting  the  children  of  the  poor  for  life  in  a 
changing,  progressive  world.  Third,  society  should  enslave 
—  not  figuratively,  but  literally  —  all  those  men  and  women 
who  voluntarily  betake  themselves  to  a  life  of  vagabondage. 
The  time  has  passed  when  food  and  shelter  should  be  given 
by  kindly  sentimentalists  to  the  tramp,  or  when  the  public 


96  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

should  deal  with  his  case  in  any  partial  way.  Every  tramp 
within  the  borders  of  civilization  should  be  placed  under 
arrest  and  put  at  severe,  enforced  labour  under  public 
direction. 

These  are  the  positive  obligations  of  individuals  and  of  the 
state  that  seem  to  be  disclosed  by  a  study  of  social  progress. 
But  we  must  not  forget  that  the  same  conditions  impose  a 
negative  duty  also  —  an  obligation  of  restraint.  For  all  re- 
form, all  philanthropic  work,  is  itself  a  phase  of  social  prog- 
ress, and,  like  all  others,  has  a  cost  in  effort  and  suffering. 
Therefore,  if  philanthropic  reform  is  hurried,  or  pursued  by 
too  radical  methods,  it  may  convert  the  absolute  increase  of 
evil,  which  progress  costs,  into  a  relative  increase,  and  so 
wholly  defeat  itself.  Those  distinguished  Italian  students  of 
criminal  anthropology,  Lombroso  and  Laschi,  have  lately 
pointed  out  that  political  crime  (the  crime,  that  is,  of  those 
who  unsuccessfully  resist  governmental  authority)  consists 
essentially  in  the  attempt  to  accomplish  in  crude  and  violent 
ways  desirable  changes  or  reforms  for  which  society  is  not  yet 
ready.  Devotion  to  the  cause  of  progress  these  authors  call 
philoneism ;  while  the  dread  of  change  they  call  misoneism. 
Society  is,  on  the  whole,  misoneistic ;  and  therefore  we  can 
mend  its  ways  but  slowly.  For,  whatever  happens,  we  must 
keep  in  touch  with  our  fellow-men,  remembering  always  the 
fine,  true  words  of  Marcus  Aurelius :  "  The  intelligence  of 
the  universe  is  social.  Accordingly,  it  has  made  the  inferior 
things  for  the  sake  of  the  superior,  and  it  has  fitted  the 
superior  to  one  another.  Thou  seest  how  it  has  subordinated, 
coordinated,  and  assigned  to  everything  its  proper  portion, 
and  has  brought  tofjether  into  concord  with  one  another  the 
things  which  are  the  best." 


VI 
INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY 


VI 
INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY 

Under  all  disguises,  and  in  all  its  forms,  the  labour  move- 
ment is  a  struggle  for  control.  The  objects  that  the  wage 
earner  desires  are  not  different  in  kind  from  those  that 
appeal  to  the  employer  and  to  the  professional  man.  All  men 
alike  desire  material  goods  and  personal  freedom.  Every 
wage  earner  who  is  dissatisfied  with  his  lot,  however,  believes 
that  his  share  of  goods  is  small  and  that  his  real  freedom  to 
follow  his  own  will  is  curtailed  because  the  organization  of 
industry  is  monarchical  or  oligarchic.  He  therefore  hopes 
for  the  success  of  some  scheme  that  will  make  industry,  like 
politics,  democratic.  The  plan  that  he  favours  may  be  noth- 
ing more  than  a  perfecting  of  trade  unionism ;  it  may  be 
cooperation ;  or  it  may  be  socialism  or  anarchism.  But 
whatever  it  is  in  name  and  form,  in  essence  it  is  an  attempt 
to  put  the  wage  earner  in  control  of  the  conditions  under 
which  he  works. 

Historically  and  practically,  the  most  important  gains  that 
workingmen  have  made  in  their  struggle  for  control,  have 
been  secured  through  political  activity;  and,  in  all  proba-, 
bility,  law  and  government  will  continue  to  be  the  most 
effective  instrumentalities  that  industrial  democracy  can 
employ. 

The  first  writer  who  fully  comprehended  this  truth  was  Fer- 
dinand Lassalle.  Lassalle's  "  Workingman's  Programme  " 
has  aptly  been  called  the  gospel  of  the  labour  movement.  No 
one  who  has  not  read  it  has  grasped  the  issues  of  discontent 
in  their  historical  connections,  their  motives,  and  their  tenden- 
cies.    Before  Lassalle,  social  questions  interested  the  few  — 


100  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

theorists,  students,  and  social  experimenters.  Karl  Marx's 
ponderous  work  on  "  Capital "  would  never  have  been  read 
by  many  labouring  men  had  not  their  enthusiasm  been  kindled 
by  the  brilliant  Lassalle,  a  man  perhaps  less  learned  than 
Marx,  but  standing  higher  in  social  life,  and  endowed  with 
that  rare  gift  of  so  stating  the  most  momentous  propositions 
that  they  fascinate  and  quicken  the  dullest  minds.  The 
"  Workingman's  Prnpramme.  "  was  one  of  a  series  of  addresses 
delivered  in  Berlin  in  1862,  and  for  its  bold  utterances  its 
author  paid  the  penalty  of  a  term  of  imprisonment.  On  the 
score  of  radicalism,  these  utterances  would  scarcely  attract 
attention  in  the  United  States  to-day,  for  the  most  audacious 
of  them  was  the  demand  for  universal  suffrage ;  but  in  Ger- 
many in  1862  they  were  revolutionary. 

The  strength  and  charm  of  the  "  Programme  "  lie  in  the 
historical  treatment  adopted.  Dogmatic  statements  are  care- 
fully avoided.  Starting  from  the  premise  that  the  working 
class  is  only  one  of  many  classes  of  which  the  modern  com- 
munity of  citizens  consists,  Lassalle  traces  the  course  of  social 
evolution  from  the  Middle  Ages,  to  discover  in  what  way 
social  classes  have  been  marked  off  from  each  other,  in  what 
way  power  and  privilege  have  been  distributed  among  them, 
and  by  what  conditions  their  relations  to  one  another  have 
been  determined;  the  retrospect  disclosing  a  progressive 
broadening  of  the  basis  of  power  and  privilege,  accompanied 
by  moral  not  less  than  material  gains. 

Going  back  to  the  Middle  Ages,  Lassalle  finds  the  same 
social  grades  as  now,  but  not  well  developed  or  defined,  and 
one  grade  and  one  element  —  the  landed  interest  —  dominat- 
ing all  the  others.  The  cause  — a  simple  one  —  he  discovers 
in  the  economic  conditions  of  the  time.  Agricultural  produce 
was  the  staple  wealth.  Trade  was  but  slightly  developed, 
manufacturing  still  less,  and  movable  possessions  were  so  little 
thought  of  in  com])arison  with  possession  of  tlie  soil  that  chat- 
tels were  alienable  without  the  consent  of  heirs,  while  property 
in  land  was  not.  Four  highly  important  social  consequences 
resulted  from  this  predominance  of  the  landed  interest.  First, 
a  vast  development  of  the  feudal  system,  with  its  obligations 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  101 

■of  service  in  the  field ;  second,  the  limitation  of  the  right  of 
representation  to  the  owners  of  real  estate ;  third,  the  exemp- 
tion of  landed  proprietors  from  taxation,  on  the  principle  that 
a  ruling,  privileged  class,  invariably  seeks  to  throw  the  burden 
of  maintaining  the  existence  of  the  state  on  the  oppressed 
classes  that  have  no  property ;  fourth,  the  contempt  with 
which  every  labour  or  profession  not  connected  with  the  land 
was  socially  regarded. 

The  overthrow  of  this  medieval  constitution  of  society  be- 
gan with  the  Ijgformation  of  1517,  and  was  completed  by  the 
Revolution  of  1789 ;  but  neitlier  religion  nor  revolution  was 
the  cause  of  the  transformation.  The  cause  was  the  accumu- 
lation, through  trade,  of  capital  —  movable  property  as  distin- 
guished from  landed  property — in  the  hands  of  the  bourgeoisie. 
By  law  the  nobles  and  the  clergy  continued  to  be  the  ruling 
classes ;  but  in  fact  they  became  more  and  more  dependent 
upon  the  rich  bourgeoisie,  or  they  were  even  obliged  to 
abandon  their  class  notions  and  themselves  resort  to  trade 
to  obtain  wealth.  The  age  became  one  of  materialism, 
characterized  by  a  voracious  struggle  for  money,  in  which  all 
moral  ideas  were  prostituted.  The  causes  of  such  a  remarkable 
increase  in  movable  wealth,  Lassalle  enumerates  at  length ; 
but  they  all  reduce  to  one,  the  enormous  extension  of  the 
market  for  movable  goods  by  the  discoveries  of  America  and 
the  sea  route  to  the  East  Indies.  The  Revolution  of  1789 
merely  gave  legal  recognition  to  a  change  that  was  already 
accomplished  in  fact.  Lassalle  takes  pains  to  emphasize  the 
truth  that  this  is  the  character  of  all  revolutions  :  they  cannot 
be  made  to  order ;  they  only  give  form  and  countenance  to 
what  already  exists. 

The  bourgeoisie  became,  then,  legally  and  constitutionally 
what  they  had,  for  some  time,  been  in  fact  —  the  ruling  power. 

How  did  they  use  their  power  ?  For  a  time  they  professed 
to  use  it  in  tlie  interests  of  the  whole  of  humanity ;  but  they 
soon  discovered  that,  after  all,  they  were  only  a  fragment.  As 
a  class,  they  began  to  separate  into  two  subdivisions,  one  made 
up  of  those  who  were  dependent  on  their  daily  labour  for 
subsistence,  the  other  composed  of  the  possessors  of  large 

L'BRAR-y 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

r»ii#r-nr-.  ir.r- 


102  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

capitals.  It  was  the  latter  that  now  became  the  ruling  class, 
which  straightway  began  to  devise  a  system  of  social  arrange- 
ments advantageous  to  itself  and  oppressive  to  all  others, 
exactly  as  the  landlords  had  done  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

The  first  step  was  the  restriction  of  suffrage  and  represen- 
tation to  the  possessors  of  capital,  as  measured  by  their  pay- 
ment of  direct  taxes.  Lassalle  gives  numerous  examples  of 
the  extent  to  which  this  device  was  carried  in  European 
countries.  In  France,  where  the  rights  of  man  had  been  so 
enthusiastically  proclaimed,  two  hundred  thousand  electors, 
in  the  reign  of  Louis  Philippe,  bore  rule  over  thirty  million 
inhabitants.  By  the  graduated  system  of  suffrage  established 
in  Germany  by  the  Electoral  Law  of  1849,  one  rich  man  ex- 
ercised the  same  right  of  voting  as  seventeen  who  had  no 
property. 

The  suffrage  having  been  narrowly  restricted,  the  capi- 
talist class  next  imitated  the  oppressions  of  the  mediaeval 
landed  class  in  throwing  the  main  burden  of  taxation  upon 
the  poor.  This  was  accomplished  through  the  device  of  in- 
direct taxation.  While  suffrage  and  representation  were 
based  on  direct  taxation,  great  care  and  ingenuity  were  ex- 
ercised to  raise  the  greater  part  of  the  revenues  of  the  state 
by  taxes  on  articles  of  family  consumption,  of  which  men  with 
no  property  but  with  large  families  must  be  the  chief  pur- 
chasers. Again,  the  capitalist  class  imitated  the  landlord  class, 
by  visiting  social  dishonour  upon  those  whose  sole  maintenance 
was  labour.  But  as  the  trader  of  the  Middle  Ages  could  be- 
come somebody  by  buying  land,  so  the  rag-picker  could  find 
welcome  into  the  highest  social  circles  if  he  became  a  million- 
naire.  Finally,  the  capitalist  class  carried  out  its  dominion 
by  supervising  public  education  in  its  own  interest,  and 
especially  by  similarly  controlling  the  press. 

But  this  period  of  history  also,  Lassalle  declares,  is  virtu- 
ally closed,  little  as  outward  appearances  seem  to  show  it. 
The  dawn  of  the  new  period  began  on  February  24,  1848, 
when  a  workingman  was  called  into  the  provisional  govern- 
ment of  France,  which  declared  that  the  object  of  the  state 
was  the  improvement  of  the  lot  of  the  working  classes,  and 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  103 

proclaimed  the  right  of  universal  manhood  suffrage.  Power 
has  descended  at  last  to  the  fourth  estate,  which  is  coexten- 
sive with  mankind.  The  fourth  estate  contains  in  its  heart 
no  germ  of  a  new  privilege  and  "  its  interest  is  in  truth  the 
interest  of  the  whole  of  humanity." 

Lassalle's  historical  survey  is  incomplete :  many  details 
necessary  to  a  perfect  understanding  of  European  social  evo- 
lution are  omitted  or  ignored ;  and  his  assumption  that  the 
fourth  estate  contains  in  its  heart  no  germ  of  a  new  privi- 
lege, is  an  absurd  untruth  to  which  we  must  again  refer. 
However,  it  is  certain  that,  in  substantially  the  way  which 
he  has  described,  power  —  a  great  deal  of  power  —  has  de- 
scended to  the  fourth  estate.  Consequently  the  working- 
man's  programme  is  of  general  interest. 

As  formulated  by  Lassalle,  the  programme  demands,  first, 
universal  suffrage.  r>L^jj^j|g^^ij^jjg|yjDy^^  but  it  is  the 

only  means  which,  in  the  long  run,  of  itself  corrects  the 
mistakes  to  which  its  momentary  wrong  use  may  lead.  Sec- 
ond, the  workingman's  programme  calls  for  the  reconcilia- 
tion of  class  interests,  through  the  equal  distribution  of 
power,  and  the  consequent  moral  regeneration  of  society. 
Power  coupled  with  privilege  necessarily  creates  selfishness 
and  wickedness.  Power  exercised  apart  from  privilege  and 
by  all  humanity  must  be  for  all  humanity ;  and  the  very  con- 
templation of  this  idea  is  purifying  and  ennobling.  Third, 
the  workingman's  programme  contemplates  the  expansion  of 
the  state  and  its  people,  enabling  them  to  acquire  an  amount 
of  education,  power,  and  freedom  that  would  have  been  un- 
attainable by  them  as  individuals. 

Such  was  the  workingman's  programme,  as  conceived  and 
presented  by  a  brilliant  and  courageous  socialist  in  1862.  If 
now  we  compare  with  it  the  actual  accomplishments  and 
present  tendencies  of  the  workingman's  movement  in  the 
United  States,  where  political  liberty  affords  the  widest  scope 
for  peaceful  revolution,  two  deeply  significant  conclusions 
emerge.  We  have  gone  a  long  way  toward  the  realization 
of  the  programme ;  but  the  results  have  not  been  altogether 


104  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

what  Lassalle  anticipated,  and  some  unlooked-for  results  have 
followed,  that  are  in  direct  contradiction  to  his  predictions. 

We  will  first  observe  the  extent  to  which  the  programme 
has  been  realized.  Familiar  with  these  historical  facts,  we 
may  next  venture  to  consider  some  of  the  criticisms  that 
have  been  offered,  or  that  may  be  offered,  upon  the  use  that 
workingmen  have  made  of  their  political  power.  This  done, 
it  will  be  worth  while  to  examine  some  of  the  non-political 
methods  whereby  workingmen,  largely  in  consequence  of  the 
political  movement,  now  share  in  industrial  control.  And, 
finally,  we  must  notice  certain  expectations  that  have  radically  . 
failed  of  realization,      ^f-^**  ^^T'/A^'^^  /^  .,/^""*^ 

/The  universal  manhood  suffrage  thar  the  workingman's 
programme  calls  for,  exists  in  most  of  our  American  com- 
monwealths. Direct  taxation,  even  in  the  form  of  an  in- 
significant poll-tax,  is  no  longer  a  prerequisite  to  voting. 
The  conception  of  the  state,  too,  which  the  programme  offers, 
has  found  wide  acceptance.  Beyond  the  disciples  of  Henry 
George,  and  the  believers  in  theoretical  anarchism,  very  few 
workingmen  now  subscribe  to  the  old  Jeffersonian  notion 
that  the  only  legitimate  duties  of  government  are  to  protect 
life  and  property  and  to  enforce  contracts.  For  more  than 
half  a  century,  the  wage-earning  classes  have  been  busily 
engaged  in  securing  legislation  and  administrative  activity 
in  their  own  interests.  The  modifications  of  law  and  gov- 
ernment that  they  have  thus  brought  about  have  been  of 
every  kind  and  degree,  from  the  abolition  of  ancient  statutes 
curtailing  their  freedom  of  movement  and  of  bargaining,  to 
experiments  in  positive  socialism.  It  is  worth  while  to  ex- 
amine some  of  these  products  of  the  political  activity  of 
workingmen,  noticing  their  character,  the  reasons  for  and 
against  them,  and  their  prol)able  consequences. 

The  wage  earners,  no  less  than  the  political  economists, 
have  long  understood  that  the  "  labour  question  "  is  not  the 
idle  inquiry,  "  How  may  we  stop  the  price-making  action  of 
supply  and  demand?"  So  long  as  water  finds  its  level, 
abundance  will  mean  cheapness,  and  scarcity  will  mean  dear- 


INDUSTKIAL  DEMOCRACY  105 

ness,  be  it  a  material  commodity  or  a  human  service  that  is 
offered  in  the  market. 

But  the  law  that  water  will  find  its  level  is  only  approxi- 
mately true.  The  water  in  the  pipe  never  rises  quite  so  high 
as  the  water  in  the  reservoir:  it  is  retarded  by  friction  and 
the  pressure  of  the  air.  For  a  similar  reason,  the  equaliza- 
tions of  supply  and  demand  are  never  perfect.  Economic 
movements  are  retarded  by  various  forms  of  social  friction, 
and  by  that  kind  of  pressure  known  as  coercion.  The  Penn- 
sylvania miner,  for  example,  if  his  demand  were  unimpeded, 
would  buy  his  groceries  of  a  village  store  at  competitive 
prices.  But  being  constrained  by  a  pressure  of  many  times 
the  atmospheric  normal,  he  buys  at  the  company's  "pluck- 
me  store,"  where  he  is  systematically  defrauded. 

The  ownership  of  capital  is  the  best  known  lubricator  of 
social  friction  and,  when  skilfully  used,  an  energetic  c6ercive 
force.  The  owner  of  abundant  capital  is  able  to  save  and 
make  at  every  turn  by  buying  supplies  and  labour,  and  selling 
his  product,  at  the  most  advantageous  points  within  a  market 
of  thousands  of  miles  radius.  The  workman  who  has  no 
capital  save  his  clothes  and  tools,  and  who  is  dependent  upon 
the  immediate  sale  of  labour  for  bread,  is  limited  to  the  market 
which  lies  within  walking  distance.  Within  this  narrow 
market,  the  relations  of  supply  and  demand  maybe  all  against 
him.  Five  hundred  miles  away  they  may  be  in  his  favour; 
but  of  what  benefit  is  that  ? 

It  follows  that,  when  an  employing  capitalist  makes  a 
bargain  with  men  who  have  to  sell  their  labour  for  a  living, 
it  is  easy  for  the  former  to  throw  upon  the  latter  the  losses 
that  economic  friction  and  coercion  create.  Those  who  have 
little  may  be  compelled  to  pay  tribute  through  every  opera- 
tion of  purchase  and  sale,  toward  the  further  enrichment  of 
those  who  already  have  much. 

A  certain  sort  of  employers  have  not  been  slow  to  see  this; 
and  for  centuries  it  has  been  their  constant  study  to  increase 
the  economic  friction  and  restrictive  pressure  upon  wage 
labourers.  It  was  for  this  that  an  English  statute  was  enacted 
in  134:8,  commanding  labourers  to  work  for  the  wages  that 


106  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

♦ 
had  been  customary  before  the  relations  of  supply  and  demand 

had  been  turned  in  their  favour  by  the  "  Black  Death."  It 
was  for  this  that  the  Statute  of  Labourers  forbade  a  labourer  to 
seek  work  beyond  the  parish  in  which  he  was  born.  It  was  for 
this  that  the  ancient  guilds  of  artisans  were  sometimes  rudely 
destroyed,  and  workingmen  were  forbidden  to  combine  under 
penalty  of  indictment  as  conspirators.  But  until  very  recent 
years,  no  law  was  ever  enacted  to  prevent  combinations  of 
employers.  "  Masters  are  always  and  everywhere  in  a  sort 
of  tacit  but  constant  and  uniform  combination,  not  to  raise 
the  wages  of  labour  above  their  actual  rate.  To  violate  this 
combination  is  everywhere  a  most  unpopular  action,  and  a 
sort  of  reproach  to  a  master  among  his  neighbours  and  equals. 
We  seldom,  indeed,  hear  of  this  combination  because  it  is  the 
usual  and,  one  may  say,  the  natural  state  of  things  which 
nobody  ever  hears  of.  Masters,  too,  sometimes  enter  into 
particular  combinations  to  sink  the  wages  of  labour  even 
below  this  rate.  These  are  always  conducted  with  the  ut- 
most silence  and  secrecy  until  the  moment  of  execution ;  and 
when  the  workmen  yield,  as  they  sometimes  do  without 
resistance,  though  severely  felt  by  them,  they  are  never 
heard  of  by  other  people."  So  wrote  Adam  Smith  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Workingmen  have  not  been  blind  to  the  ways  and  means 
by  which  their  freedom  to  profit  by  an  unimpeded  movement 
of  supply  and  demand  has  been  restricted.  For  generations 
the  more  intelligent  among  them  have  been  watching  for 
opportunities  to  organize  counteracting  agencies.  Universal 
suffrage  and,  in  the  community  at  large,  a  broadened  sense  of 
justice,  which  political  liberty  has  fostered,  have  put  them  in 
control  of  the  law-making  power  so  far  as  its  relations  to  their 
own  liberty  are  concerned.  Beginning  with  the  abolition  of 
ancient  statutes  that  restricted  their  freedom  of  residence 
and  punished  as  conspiracy  all  attempts  to  organize  in  oppo- 
sition to  employers,  they  have  secured  practically  absolute 
freedom  to  go  and  come,  the  right  to  organize  trade  unions 
and  other  labour  associations  —  on  any  scale  which  they  find 
practicable  and  advantageous  — and,  most  important  of  all,  the 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  107 

Tight  to  organize  combined  resistance  in  the  form  of  strikes. 
In  addition,  they  have  in  the  United  States  secured  federal 
statutes  prohibiting  the  importation  of  foreign  labour  under 
contracts  that  often  were  little  better  than  slave  buying;  and, 
in  many  commonwealths,  they  have  abolished  by  law  the 
truck  system  of  payment,  and  have  restricted  the  sale  of  con- 
vict labour  at  prices  far  below  normal  wage  rates.  Thus  they 
have  turned  upon  the  employers  precisely  that  agency  which 
for  centuries  was  used  against  themselves.  And  all  these 
measures  have  had  in  view  the  one  perfectly  definite  object, 
of  enabling  workingmen  to  bargain  with  their  employers  on 
terms  of  approxunate  equality. 

These  measures,  however,  have  been  but  the  beginning  of 
the  legislation  through  which  workingmen,  in  the  enjoyment 
of  political  power,  have  attempted  to  better  their  condition. 
Almost  as  important  as  the  conditions  under  which  the  labour 
contract  is  made  are  the  conditions  under  which  the  day's 
work  is  performed. 

It  is  one  of  the  fundamental  contentions  of  industrial 
democracy  that  the  wages  system,  however  ameliorated  by 
labour  legislation  and  by  the  influence  of  labour  organiza- 
tions, remains  inherently  defective  from  the  standpoint  of 
democratip  principle.  It  is  interesting  to  find  one  of  the 
most  vigorous  champions  of  a  radical  individualism  —  one  to 
whom  the  very  name  of  socialism  is  an  offence  —  in  perfect 
accord  with  radical  socialistic  teachers  on  this  one  point. 
Throughout  his  "  Principles  of  Sociology,"  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer  has  contended  that  social  evolution  has  been  a 
progress  from  coercion  to  freedom,  from  status  to  contract. 
Having  shown  this  progress  in  the  development  of  domestic, 
ecclesiastical,  and  political  institutions,  in  the  concluding- 
part  of  liis  final  volume  he  carries  the  thought  into  the 
interpretation  of  industrial  arrangements.  To  some  of  his 
readers  the  unexpected,  and  to  all  of  them  the  most  interest- 
ing, phase  of  this  interpretation,  is  jSIr.  Spencer's  contention 
tliat  the  wages  system  is  not  a  perfect  substitution  of  con- 
tract for  status,  and  that  it  cannot  be  regarded  as  final.  He 
says,  "  So  long  as  the  worker  remains  a  wage  earner,  the 


108  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

marks  of  status  do  not  wholly  disappear.  For  so  many  hours 
daily,  he  makes  over  his  faculties  to  a  master  or  to  a  coopera- 
tive group  for  so  much  money,  and  is,  for  a  time,  owned  by 
him  or  it.  He  is  temporarily  in  the  position  of  a  slave ;  and 
his  overlooker  stands  in  the  position  of  a  slave-driver." 

Nevertheless,  inherently  defective  though  it  may  be,  the 
wages  system  is,  after  all,  greatly  modified  and  mitigated 
when  the  wage  earners  themselves,  to  a  great  extent,  fix  the 
conditions  under  which  their  labour  is  performed,  instead  of 
submitting  to  conditions  dictated  wholly  by  employers.  And 
this,  to  a  very  great  extent,  modern  industrial  legislation 
has  accomplished.  In  all  commonwealths,  we  now  find  laws 
limiting  the  hours  of  labour  of  children  and  married  women, 
and,  in  some  instances,  those  of  adult  males  also ;  laws  pre- 
scribing times  and  methods  of  wage  payment,  extending  and 
defining  the  liability  of  employers  for  injury  by  accident,  and 
strictly  prescribing  sanitary  conditions ;  and  administrative 
agencies,  such  as  boards  of  factory  inspectors,  to  carry  such 
legislation  into  effect.  Thus,  to  a  very  great  extent,  work- 
ingmen  have  already  modified  the  r^^gime  of  status  which 
survives  in  the  wages  system,  by  themselves  determining  and 
enforcing  the  conditions  under  which  their  daily  labour  is 
performed. 

If  the  greater  equality  in  bargaining  and  the  improved 
conditions  of  work  which  wage  earners  have  secured  through 
the  exercise  of  their  political  power  were  the  only  results  of 
their  enfranchisement,  it  would  be  admitted  that  an  impor- 
tant part  of  the  workingman's  programme  had  been  carried 
into  effect.  In  reality,  it  is  necessary  to  admit  more  than 
this.  In  addition  to  these  things,  the  workingmen  have 
greatly  modified  the  conditions  under  which  they  live. 

They  have  done  this,  in  the  first  place,  by  the  restraints 
of  law  which  have  been  brought  to  bear  upon  all  corporations 
in  their  relations  to  the  consumer.  The  past  twenty-five 
years  have  been  a  period  of  incessant  activity  by  legislatures 
and  courts,  in  prescribing  the  duties  and  limiting  the  powers 
aiid  privileges  of  railway  and  express  companies,  telegraph 
companies,  industrial  combinations,  and  trusts.     Discrimina- 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  109 

tions  have  been  forbidden,  many  forms  of  combination  in 
restraint  of  trade  or  of  competition  have  been  pronounced 
unlawful,  and  even  the  rates  or  prices  charged  have  been 
either  fixed  absolutely  or  limited  to  certain  maximum  figures. 
So  far,  indeed,  has  this  kind  of  legal  activity  been  carried 
that  many  business  enterprises  have  been  brought  to  ruin, 
and  the  limits  beyond  which  public  control  of  corporate  busi- 
ness cannot  pass  without  destroying  the  business  itself  have 
been  gradually  coming  into  the  view  of  both  courts  and 
legislative  bodies.  There  is  every  reason  to  expect  that,  as 
these  limits  are  more  clearly  perceived,  the  rule  of  live  and 
let  live  will  be  accepted  by  all  parties  in  interest.  The  gen- 
eral fact,  nevertheless,  will  remain  true,  that  the  masses  of 
the  people  have  discovered  their  power  to  control  the  con- 
ditions of  corporate  business  activity;  and  that,  while  en- 
deavouring to  use  this  power  justly  and  expediently,  they  will 
not  permit  the  power  itself  to  be  abridged  or  forgotten. 

In  the  second  place,  the  working  classes  have  enormously 
ameliorated  the  conditions  under  which  they  live,  through 
the  exercise  of  the  taxing  power  of  the  state.  The  evolution 
of  taxation  has  not,  indeed,  been  exactly  what  Lassalle  ex- 
pected. He  would  have  predicted  that  one  of  the  first  acts 
of  an  enfranchised  fourth  estate  would  be  the  overthrow  of 
indirect  taxation.  Yet  it  is  precisely  in  the  United  States, 
where  the  fourth  estate  is  a  more  important  political  element 
than  in  any  other  country,  that  indirect  taxation  is  most 
firmly  established.  Nevertheless,  by  means  of  taxation,  the 
fourth  estate  has  obtained  comforts  and  opportunities  that 
were  hardly  within  the  reach  of  the  bourgeoisie  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  century.  The  system  of  public  school  education 
has  everywhere  undergone  an  enormous  extension,  so  that 
to-day,  in  many  states  of  the  American  Union,  a  child  of  the 
people  may  pass,  at  the  public  expense,  through  every  grade 
of  instruction  from  the  kindergarten  to  the  completion  of  the 
university  or  professional  course.  Expenditures  for  parks, 
streets,  baths,  sanitation,  and  adornment  also  are  everywhere 
increasing  at  so  rapid  a  rate  that  not  only  the  outward  appear- 
ance of  all  large  cities  is  being  transformed,  but  their  actual 


110  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

€omfort  and  healthfulness  are  being  materially  increased. 
In  addition  to  these  things,  public  revenues  are  being  more 
and  more  extensively  used  to  create  public  property,  either 
outright  or  by  the  purchase  of  the  property  of  private  cor- 
porations. Street  railways  and  lighting  facilities  are  in 
many  places  passing  under  municipal  ownership ;  and  no 
one  can  predict  to  what  extent  this  movement  may  continue. 
No  one  can  say  with  certainty  that  a  popular  demand  for 
the  public  ownership  of  all  means  of  transportation  and  com- 
munication may  not  ultimately  make  the  state  the  sole  owner 
and  operator  of  railroad  and  telegraph  systems.  As  in  the 
case  of  the  legal  control  of  corporate  business,  however,  a 
limit  to  the  further  extension  of  this  mode  of  activity  appears 
to  be  not  distant.  The  increase  of  municipal  and  state  in- 
debtedness has  become  a  formidable  fact  of  modern  public 
finance,  and  it  is  more  than  doubtful  whether  rates  of  taxa- 
tion can  be  raised  much  further,  without  bringing  about  a 
powerful  organized  resistance,  or  some  radical  change  of 
method.  When,  as  in  the  city  of  New  York,  the  rate  of  the 
property  tax  has  risen  above  two  and  a  half  per  cent  on  a 
continually  rising  assessment,  and  threatens  to  approach  one- 
half  of  the  average  annual  income  from  investments,  it  is 
apparent  that  not  much  further  progress  can  be  made  along 
this  particular  line  of  advance. 

Such  are  among  the  achievements  of  industrial  democracy, 
as  it  has  thus  far  been  developed  through  the  exercise  of 
political  power  by  those  large  classes  in  the  population 
which,  until  the  present  century,  had  no  share  in  the  making 
of  laws  or  in  determinino;  the  activities  of  ofovernment.  Such 
extensions  of  governmental  functions,  and  such  new  dispo- 
sitions of  public  revenue,  have  not  been  accomplished  with- 
out provoking  earnest  protest  on  the  part  of  classes  whose 
powers  and  privileges  have  been  abridged,  or  without  calling 
out  emphatic  warnings  from  thoughtful  men  who  have  seen 
in  these  new  developments  grave  dangers  to  social  order  and 
human  welfare.  We  need  not  trouble  ourselves  to  consider 
the    objections    that  spring  from  class  interests ;   but   it   is 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  111 

desirable  to  glance  at  some  of  the  rational  arguments  that 
may  be  brought  against  the  programme  of  industrial  democ- 
racy, and  endeavour  to  discover  the  principles,  if  such  there 
be,  which  determine  to  what  extent  the  workingman's  pro- 
gramme may  be  accepted  as  expedient  and  right. 

Among  negative  criticisms,  the  one  that  undoubtedly  has 
the  greatest  strength  and  has  been  most  forcibly  presented, 
is  founded  on  the  relation  which  public  burdens  of  every 
kind  bear  to  the  welfare  of  the  middle  class.  Doubtless  it  is 
to  Professor  William  G.  Sumner  that  we  owe  the  clearest 
conception  of  this  problem,  which  he  has  presented  in  a  great 
number  of  discussions  and  in  a  great  variety  of  lights.  It  is 
a  matter  of  no  importance.  Professor  Sumner  thinks,  that  a 
society  presents  extremes  of  economic  condition ;  but  it  is  of 
great  importance  that  the  middle  class  between  the  extremes 
shall  be  well  developed.  No  society  that  consists  of  the  two 
extremes  only  is  in  a  sound  condition.  In  an  ideal  society, 
the  great  mass  of  the  population  would  fill  the  middle  range. 
Whatever  crushes  out  the  middle  classes,  makes  the  rich  grow 
richer  and  the  poor  poorer.  And  Professor  Sumner  affirms 
that  all  social  burdens,  such  as  military  service,  taxation, 
insecurity  of  life  and  property,  have  this  tendency,  since  they 
cannot  be  distributed  in  proportion  to  ability  to  bear  them. 

Many  historical  facts  seem  to  confirm  this  contention.  In 
the  Roman  Empire,  the  burdens  of  military  service  and  tax- 
ation divided  society  into  the  two  classes,  creditors  and 
debtors ;  and  in  time  the  debtors  became  slaves  to  the  credit- 
ors. While  one  man  found  himself  just  well  enough  estab- 
lished to  endure  the  burden  without  being  crushed,  another 
found  that  the  time  demanded,  or  the  wound  received,  or  the 
loss  sustained  from  an  invasion,  forced  him  into  debt  and 
sealed  his  fate.  The  disorder  of  the  Middle  Ages  enabled  the 
man  who  was  just  strong  enough  to  maintain  himself,  to 
become  a  lord.  The  man  who  was  just  too  weak  to  sustain 
himself  became  the  lord's  vassal.  A  like  effect  has  always 
resulted  from  taxation.  The  lowest  sections  of  the  middle 
•class,  consisting  of  those  who  are  struggling  out  of  wage 
service  into  independent  self-employment,  with  a  small  capital 


/ 


112  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

accumulated  by  saving,  are  liable  to  be  thrown  back  by  any 
increase  of  their  burdens. 

From  facts  like  these,  Professor  Sumner  concludes  that  all 
unnecessary  action  by  the  state  necessarily  has  the  effect  of 
increasing  the  evils  that  social  democrats  most  deplore.  It 
inevitably  makes  the  rich  grow  richer  and  the  poor  poorer, 
since  the  state  has  nothing  and  can  give  nothing  that  it  does 
not  take  from  somebody.  Consequently,  in  his  judgment, 
and  in  the  judgment  of  thousands  who  accept  the  reasoning 
which  he  follows,  we  have  nothing  to  hope  for  from  a  gov- 
ernmental management  of  means  of  transportation  and  com- 
munication, from  a  municipal  ownership  of  the  means  of 
street  lighting  and  street  railways,  and  from  an  elaboration 
of  the  system  of  public  education.  Furthermore,  and  perhaps 
of  greater  importance,  governmental  interference  in  the  rela- 
tions of  employer  to  employed,  such  as  the  limitation  of  the 
hours  of  labour,  the  prescription  of  kinds  and  modes  of  pay- 
ment, and  all  interference  with  individual  freedom,  must  be 
condemned  on  the  same  general  ground.  All  these  things, 
whatever  their  value,  have  a  certain  cost  which  the  public 
must  bear ;  and  that  cost,  unequally  distributed,  necessarily 
falls  on  the  weaker  members  of  the  independent  middle  class, 
and  always  may  operate  to  throw  some  of  them  back  into 
the  condition  of  wage  earners. 

In  reasoning  of  this  kind,  it  is  important  to  scrutinize  the 
minor  premise.  It  always  is  possible  that  any  particular  case 
does  not  properly  fall  within  the  class  to  which  it  is 
assigned. 

Whether  taxation  and  the  extension  of  state  functions  have 
the  effect  that  has  been  described,  depends  not  at  all  upon  an 
absolute  increase  of  a  social  burden.  A  burden  that  is  abso- 
lutely large  may  be  relatively  small,  when  compared  with  the 
benefits  secured.  Tbiis  no  one  would  maintain  thnt  ^^""^  tn.YniiQp 
which  supports  the  acrenoies  bv  which  civil  order  is  established 
tends  on  the  whole  to  nmVft  t1if>  v\oh  nrrnw  nVhpr  nnrl  thp  poor 
poorer.  By  Professor  Sumner's  own  showing,  it  has  the  op- 
posite effect.  We  must  admit,  then,  that  quite  possibly  other 
governmental  action  also  may,  on  the  whole,  diminish  social 


/, 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  113 

burdens  more  than  it  adds  to  them.  Beyond  any  doubt  the 
government  post-office  does  this.  Private  corporations  carry- 
ing the  mails  would  discriminate  in  favour  of  rich  sections  and 
rich  patrons,  just  as  railroad  corporations  do ;  and,  to  that  ex- 
tent, they  would  help  the  rich  to  grow  richer  and  the  poor 
poorer.  In  and  of  itself,  however,  this  fact  does  not  prove  that 
railroads  and  telegraphs  also  should  be  turned  over  to  govern- 
ment management.  When  that  question  is  raised  there  are 
many  other  considerations  to  be  examined.  At  the  same 
time,  it  is  obvious  that  a  governmental  function,  when  criti- 
cised with  reference  to  its  tendency  to  increase  or  to  diminish 
economic  equality,  cannot  be  condemned  solely  on  the  ground 
that  it  is  a  financial  burden  which  will  be  unequally  borne, 
until  a  careful  inquiry  has  been  made  into  the  distribution  of 
any  benefit  which  it  may  confer. 

Again,  while  the  taxation  that  simply  transfers  money  from 
class  to  class,  as  the  English  poor  law  administration  did, 
is  always  a  social  burden  that  makes  the  poor  grow  poorer, 
because  it  discourages  exertion ;  the  taxation  that  encourages 
exertion  by  stimulating  powers,  providing  opportunities,  and 
improving  the  common  environment,  is  a  social  benefit  that 
tends  powerfully  to  equalize  conditions.  Common  school 
education  has  enabled  thousands  to  rise  to  the  independent 
middle  class  for  every  one  that  it  has  pulled  down  by  taxa- 
tion. Almost  as  much  can  be  said  for  public  libraries.  Sani- 
tary improvements  —  such  as  the  supply  of  pure  drinking 
water,  effective  sewerage,  efficient  street  cleaning,  the  open- 
ing of  parks  and  playgrounds,  and  efficient  restrictions  upon 
overcrowding  in  tenements  —  have  a  similar  tendency. 

So  there  is  a  distinction  to  be  made  between  the  state  ac- 
tion that  simultaneously  increases  social  burdens  and  dimin- 
ishes the  power  of  the  people  to  bear  them,  and  the  state  action 
that  diminishes  social  burdens  and  develops  individual  ener- 
gies. The  latter  is  not  socialistic,  but  societarian.  It  recog- 
nizes the  state  and  the  individual  as  coordinate  powers,  and 
brings  them  into  cooperation  to  their  mutual  advantage,  aim- 
ing to  make  society  serve  its  individual  members,  and  to  make 
individuals  better  members  of  society.     Socialism  recognizes 


114  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

only  the  social  aggregate,  the  mass,  and  represses  the  individ- 
ual ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  societarian  action,  reciprocal  ser- 
vice between  society  and  its  individual  members,  is  a  process 
of  the  highest  social  evolution,  and  the  chief  agency  in  help- 
ing the  poor  to  grow  richer  by  their  own  endeavours. 

That  this  way  of  regarding  state  action  is  becoming  daily 
more  general  among  the  people  will  hardly  be  denied.  To 
this  extent,  at  least,  industrial  democracy  is  making  headway. 
To  this  extent,  at  least,  the  workingman,  with  others,  is  par- 
ticipating through  his  rights  as  a  citizen  and  voter  in  deter- 
mining the  conditions  under  which  his  labour  is  performed. 

There  are  two  other  replies  ,that  may  be  and  have  been 
made  to  such  criticisms  of  industrial  democracy  as  that  by 
Professor  Sumner,  which  we  have  been  considering.  One  of 
these  is  theoretical,  the  other  is  practical ;  but  both  are  of  the 
dangerous  sort  that  we  often  describe  as  half  truths.  \ 

The  first  or  theoretical  answer,  is  one  that  Professor  Karl 
Pearson  has  drawn  from  a  study  of  the  relations  of  natural 
selection  to  socialism.  Professor  Pearson's  own  sympathies 
are  with  the  socialistic  movement.  His  argument  in  support 
of  it  is  on  the  whole  the  ablest  and,  within  the  limits  of  its 
legitimate  application,  the  soundest  that  has  anywhere  been 
offered.  Replying  to  the  contention  of  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer 
and  of  other  pronounced  individualists,  that  natural  selection 
is  necessary  for  progress,  and  that  industrial  stagnation,  intel- 
lectual mediocrity,  and  perhaps  physical  degeneration,  would 
follow  any  successful  attempt  to  prevent  the  supplanting  of 
the  weak  by  the  strong  in  human  communities.  Professor 
Pearson  insists  that  progress  now  depends  upon  a  rigorous 
limitation  of  intra-group  competition  in  the  interest  of  a  suc- 
cessful extra-group  competition.  The  supremacy-of  England, 
for  example,  does  riot  now  depend  upon  an  increasing  differ- 
ence between  the  more  highly  developed  and  the  less  highly 
developed  classes,  but  rather  on  England's  ability  to  hold 
her  own  with  other  great  national  powers  in  the  struggle 
for  territory  and  markets.  In  this  struggle,  social  cohesion, 
rather  than  individual  development,  is  of  the  greatest  impor- 
tance.   A  civil  contest  between  the  cultured  and  the  ignorant, 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  115^ 

the  rich  and  the  poor,  might  be  the  fatal  weakness  that  would 
give  success  to  her  rivals.  As  Professor  Pearson  very  hap- 
pily puts  it,  a  nation  would  be  crushed  which  proceeded 
on  the  assumption  that  it  is  better  to  have  a  few  prize  cattle 
among  innumerable  lean  kine  than  to  have  a  decently  bred 
and  properly  fed  herd,  with  no  expectations  at  Smithfield. 
Accordingly,  while  legislation  conferring  special  industrial 
privileges  upon  wage  earners  in  general,  and  upon  women 
in  particular,  is  a  limitation  of  intra-group  competition,  it 
is  nevertheless  justifiable,  in  Professor  Pearson's  belief,  if  it 
strengthens  social  cohesion  and  so  improves  the  national 
chances  in  the  extra-group  struggle. 

The  sound  conclusion  from  all  this  is  different  from  that 
which  Professor  Pearson  offers.  While  a  too  radical  indi- 
vidualism would  remove  all  restraints  upon  intra-group  com- 
petition, ignoring  the  perils  of  the  extra-group  struggle, 
socialism,  in  view  of  extra-group  competition,  would  suppress 
the  competition  between  individuals  and  classes.  The  com- 
mon sense  of  mankind  has  always  seen  that  either  of  these  ex- 
treme policies  would  be  disastrous.  A  measure  of  intra-group 
competition  and  natural  selection  is  necessary  for  progress ; 
but  social  cohesion  is  no  less  necessary  for  success  in  the 
world  struggle.  A  sound  social  policy  therefore  always 
endeavours  to  maintain  social  cohesion  with  a  minimum  re- 
striction of  individual  liberty. 

The  other  and  practical  answer  to  objections  like  Professor 
Sumner's,  made  to  the  programme  of  industrial  democracy, 
is  found  in  plans  for  the  radical  rearrangement  of  taxation, 
and  especially  in  schemes  for  the  appropriation  of  land-rent, 
for  the  taxation  of  franchises,  and  for  progressive  taxes  on 
property.  It  is  evident  that,  if  public  revenue  were  derived 
entirely  or  chiefly  from  land-rent,  from  franchises,  and  from 
the  estates  of  millionnaires,  the  increase  of  public  financial 
burdens  would  not  fall  as  an  increasing  weight  upon  that 
class,  described  by  Professor  Sumner,  which  is  struggling  to 
an  independent  position.  These  schemes,  however,  raise  the 
totally  different  question  of  their  ethical  validity. 

All  values  are  created  by  the  cooperation  of  three  primary 


116  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

factors,  namely,  nature,  society,  and  the  individual.  These 
three  factors,  however,  enter  in  greatly  varying  proportions 
into  different  groups  or  classes  of  values.  There  are  products 
to  which  nature  contributes  much  and  man  little.  There  are 
products  which  we  owe  almost  wholly  to  individual  inven- 
tiveness and  industry.  And  there  are  products  which  are 
created  almost  wholly  by  the  law-making  authority  of  the 
state.  Again,  there  are  products  which  we  owe  chiefly  to  the 
cooperation  of  society  with  nature,  rather  than  to  the  coopera- 
tion of  the  individual  man  with  nature.  This,  of  course,  is 
true  of  speculative  values  in  land.  It  is  preeminently  true 
also  of  the  water-front  values  of  great  maritime  cities  ;  of  the 
values  of  the  terminal  facilities  of  great  railways ;  and  of  the 
values  of  those  narrow  strips  of  land  which,  in  towns  and 
cities,  are  occupied  by  street  railway  lines. 

Values  that  in  the  past  have  thus  been  created  by  the  co- 
operation of  nature  and  the  state  with  the  efforts  of  individual 
men  have  largely  passed,  by  the  authority  of  the  state,  into 
private  ownership.  But  similar  values,  in  vastly  greater 
amounts,  which  are  being  created  and  which  are  yet  to  be 
created,  have  not  yet  been  unconditionally  appropriated.  Of 
the  moral  right  of  the  state  to  reserve  for  public  uses  pro- 
spective values,  hereafter  to  be  created  by  an  increasing  de- 
mand upon  limited  natural  resources  or  through  the  enjoy- 
ment of  privileges  that  the  state  itself  has  instituted  (as,  for 
example,  in  creating  the  corporate  form  of  organization ), 
there  can  be  no  rational  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the  ethical 
philosopher ;  and  there  is  not  likely  to  be  much  denial  in  the 
practical  discussions  of  a  democratic  people. 

These  truths  do  not  yield,  as  a  legitimate  deduction,  the 
doctrine  of  the  single  tax  —  a  doctrine  which  ignores  other 
truths  quite  as  important  —  but  they  afford  the  practical 
principle  that  the  revenues  of  the  state  should  not  be  drawn 
in  large  part  from  accumulated  property  or  from  wealth 
which  is  being  created  cliieily  by  individual  effort,  until  that 
wealth  which  is  being  created  chiefly  by  the  cooperation  of 
society  with  nature  has  been  set  apart  for  public  uses. 
While  we  may  continue  to  believe  that  it  is  legitimate  to  tax 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  117 

the  property  of  the  individual,  if  such  a  tax  is  necessary,  we 
ought  not  to  look  with  approval  upon  taxes  on  those  articles 
of  consumption  which  are  the  necessaries  of  life  to  the  poor, 
or  on  the  property  of  the  farmer  or  of  the  business  man,  who  is 
struggling  to  pay  off  mortgages  and  rise  to  a  position  of  eco- 
nomic independence,  while  enormous  values  created  by  the 
progress  of  society  and  the  authority  of  the  state  are  allowed 
to  pass  without  protest  into  the  ownership  of  multi-million- 
naires,  to  be  enjoyed  practically  without  tribute  to  the  public 
revenue. 

Such  a  proposed  reservation  by  the  state  of  values  yet  to 
be  created,  under  conditions  which  the  state  names  and  de- 
fines in  advance,  is,  however,  a  totally  different  thing  from 
the  confiscation  of  existing  private  property,  to  the  accumu- 
lation of  which  the  state  itself  has  been  a  party  by  authoriz- 
ing, encouraging,  and  protecting  individual  ownership.  A 
radically  progressive  taxation  of  existing  property,  as  such, 
or  a  general  taxation  of  land  at  its  full  rental  value  without 
compensation  of  present  owners,  as  Mr.  George  proposed,  is 
indefensible  unless  clearly  demanded  —  as  a  devastating  war 
might  be  —  by  the  further  progress  and  general  good  of  man- 
kind in  coming  generations.  The  question  thus  raised  is 
substantially  that  of  the  ethical  rightfulness  of  an  ultra  type 
of  socialism,  which  would  deal  with  all  members  of  society 
on  a  practically  communistic  basis. 

It  is  significant  that,  in  recent  years,  this  question  has  been 
a  good  deal  discussed,  not  only  in  works  on  economic  policy, 
but  also  in  constructive  works  on  ethical  theory.  This  is 
simply  one  phase  of  a  large  movement  of  thought  which 
democracy  has  provoked.  With  the  political  and  economic 
rise  of  the  masses,  ethical  philosophy  has  advanced  from  a 
narrow  and  dogmatic  individualism  to  a  comprehensive  view, 
in  which  society  and  the  individual  are  seen  as  correlative 
terms,  neither  of  which  could  exist  apart  from  the  other. 
Thus,  there  is  a  deeper  reason  for  a  serious  discussion  of  so- 
cialism in  a  modern  treatise  on  ethics  than  would  be  afforded 
by  the  mere  fact  that  socialism  has  a  great  popular  following 
and  threatens  to  become  a  practical  issue.     The  moralist  is 


118  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

confronted  by  the  question  whether  the  philosophical  ground 
of  ethical  truth  itself  does  not  afford  philosophical  standing 
to  some  sort  of  socialism  also. 

Out  of  an  examination  of  socialism  from  the  ethical  side 
much  good  should  come.  Unfortunately,  the  true  nature  of 
the  inquiry  is  not  always  perceived  and  remembered.  The 
ethical  problems  of  socialism  are  not  always  distinctly  marked 
off  from  the  sociological  and  economic  problems ;  and  too 
often,  therefore,  the  real  core  of  the  ethical  problem  is  not 
reached.  A  great  deal  of  recent  economic  literature,  ema- 
nating from  the  extreme  left  wing  of  the  historical  school, 
which  takes  a  curious  pride  in  advertising  its  ratiocinative 
limitations,  has  made  a  sorry  confusion  of  the  "  is  "  and  the 
"ought,"  of  what  Marshall  happily  calls  the  indicative  and 
the  imperative  moods  of  thought ;  and  this  confusion,  unhap- 
pily, the  ethical  writers  have  not  avoided. 

The  first  question  that  ought  to  be  raised  in  regard  to 
socialism  is  the  sociological  question  —  a  question  of  the 
"  is."  Is  society  a  product  of  that  universal  evolution  which 
brought  man  himself  into  existence,  and  conditions  all  his 
thoughts  and  doings  ?  If  so,  we  may  be  very  sure  that  there 
are  certain  general  laws  to  which  social  evolution  has  con- 
formed in  the  past,  and  to  which  it  will  conform  in  the 
future.  If  it  be  held  that  conscious  motives,  deliberately 
formed  purposes,  play  an  increasingly  large  part  in  social 
affairs,  no  true  sociologist  should  object ;  if  it  be  claimed  that 
the  human  will  is  a  free  metaphysical  entity,  no  true  sociolo- 
gist, as  such,  should  demur;  because,  in  any  case,  it  must 
remain  true  that,  if  deliberate  purposes  are  reasoned  pur- 
poses, reasoning  beings,  exposed  to  like  conditions,  must 
tend,  in  proportion  to  the  accuracy  of  their  reasoning,  to 
reach  like  conclusions.  There  are  uniformities  among  pur- 
poses, and  social  phenomena  conform  to  law  in  the  indicative 
mood,  varying  with  the  variation  of  cosmic  conditions.  All 
this  does  not,  indeed,  prove  the  antecedent  impossibility  of 
socialism ;  but  it  does  prove  the  antecedent  absurdity  of  any 
scheme  of  socialism,  or  of  any  prediction  as  to  a  socialistic 
future  which  is  based  on  such  knowledge  of  social  psychology 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  119 

as  we  possess  at  present.  Any  scheme  of  socialism  based  on 
the  psychology  of  the  individual  is  nonsense ;  and  as  yet  we 
have  almost  no  psychology  but  that  of  the  individual.  For 
the  construction  of  the  psychology  of  men  in  masses,  in  social 
groups,  in  organic  relations,  scientific  ground  has  barely  been 
broken. 

But  while  at  present  we  can  make  no  general  prediction 
as  to  a  socialistic  future,  we  can  predict  that  conscientious 
men  will  antagonize  any  socialistic  propagandism  that  seems 
to  them  ethically  wrong.  Ethical  teachers  ought,  therefore, 
to  state  with  all  possible  distinctness  the  ethical  problems 
involved  in  the  socialistic  propositions  now  before  the  public, 
and  give  us,  if  they  can,  a  reasoned  solution. 

These  problems  may  apparently  be  reduced  to  two :  First, 
if  not  all  men  are  converted  in  thought  and  feeling  to  social- 
ism, can  a  majority  have  any  ethical  right  to  compel  a  minor- 
ity to  surrender  individual  initiative  and  submit  to  dictation 
of  occupation?  Second,  what  is  an  ethical  distribution  of 
product  among  the  workers  that  create  it? 

Doubtless  not  a  few  students  of  political  science  will  say 
that  the  first  question  has  been  answered  affirmatively  to 
weariness ;  but  in  this  assumption  they  are  mistaken.  The 
reasoned  answers  founded  on  purely  ethical  data,  are 
negative  answers,  of  which  the  brilliant  example  is  Mill's 
"Liberty."  The  affirmative  answers  are  either  mere  asser- 
tions, enlivened  by  diatribes  against  natural  rights,  or  they 
are  not  strictly  ethical.  The  argument  of  the  long  row  of 
great  works  from  Hobbes's  "  Leviathan  "  to  Mulford's  "  The 
Nation  "  is  essentially  political  or  essentially  theological.  The 
utilitarianism  of  Bentham  might  be  made  the  basis  of  an 
elaborate  and  ingenious,  if  not  convincing,  argument  for  the 
unlimited  power  of  majorities ;  but  Bentham  himself  and 
most  of  his  disciples  have  drawn  chiefly  negative  conclusions. 
The  argument  from  the  denial  of  natural  rights  is  no  argu- 
ment at  all.  If  individuals  have  no  natural  rights,  majorities 
have  none.  Plato  and  Aristotle  laid  the  foundations  for  a 
rationalistic  argument  from  purely  ethical  premises,  showing 
that  majorities  may  rightfully  do  more  than  enforce  contracts 


/ 


120  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

and  keep  the  peace  ;  but  the  modern  restatement  and  comple- 
tion of  that  argument  remains  to  be  made. 

Many  students  of  economics  probably  will  say  that  the  sec- 
ond question  has  been  sufiQciently  answered.  Here,  again, 
the  assumption  is  erroneous.  In  the  distribution  of  wealth, 
are  ethical  requirements  satisfied  when  each  receives  accord- 
ing to  his  performance  ?  Not  necessarily.  Justice  may  then 
be  satisfied ;  but  ethical  requirement  may  include  more  than 
justice  in  our  modern  sense  of  the  word.  Men  have  potential 
as  well  as  actual  abilities ;  and  to  give  them  more  than  they 
now  earn,  as  a  means  of  developing  a  greater  earning  power  for 
the  future,  may  be  an  ethical  obligation.  There  is  then  no 
necessary  conflict  between  the  individualistic  principle,  "  To 
each  according  to  his  work,"  and  the  communistic  principle, 
"  To  each  according  to  his  needs."  Normal  needs  are  of  re- 
pair or  restoration  of  the  energies  and  utilities  expended  in 
useful  performance,  and  of  upbuilding  and  development  for 
future  useful  performance.  In  a  normal,  well-balanced  state 
of  things  need  and  performance  must  correspond. 

But  in  socialistic  literature  distribution  accordincj  to  needs 
easily  degenerates  into  distribution  according  to  desires. 
Then,  with  the  aid  of  the  minor  premise,  conveniently  as- 
sumed for  the  purpose,  that  men  are  equal  in  desires,  the 
conclusion  may  be  drawn,  as  by  Mr.  Edward  Bellamy,  that  so- 
cialism cannot  stop  short  of  equality  of  incomes.  It  is  at  this 
point  that  clean-cut  thinking  by  ethical  teachers  is  wanted. 
Modes  of  human  equality  there  are  which  must  be  recognized 
as  among  the  most  important  of  all  social  facts  —  equality  of 
political  status,  equality  of  civil  rights,  equality  in  the  en- 
joyment of  public  utilities.  Much  may  be  said,  also,  for  a 
certain  approximation  toward  economic  equality;  for  all  ex- 
tremes of  inequality  are  among  the  gravest  of  social  dangers. 
But  the  equality  that  is  necessary  or  desirable  in  society  must 
not  be  confounded  with  that  absolute  equality  of  incomes 
which  communism  demands.  It  is  possible  that  a  strong 
argument  could  be  made  in  support  of  the  proposition  that 
an  ethical  distribution  of  wealth  would  be  one  that  sliould 
afford   equality  of  satisfaction,  throughout   society,  of   the 


INDUSTRIAL   DEMOCRACY  121 

desires  that  are  ethically  commendable.  But  is  it  biologically 
and  psychologically  possible  for  men  to  be  equal  in  desires 
that  are  ethically  commendable  ?  Men  will  never  be  equal 
physically.  Will  they,  then,  be  equal  in  perception,  in  rea- 
soning, in  imagination,  in  sympathy  ?  Will  they  equally  find 
pleasure  in  the  beautiful  and  the  good  ?  Or  will  deficiency 
in  one  set  of  faculties  be  exactly  balanced  by  the  superiority 
of  some  other  set?  If  not,  equality  of  income  must  inevi- 
tably create  a  class  of  sybarites  and  debauchees.  There  has 
been  no  more  curious  psychological  phenomenon  in  recent 
times  than  has  been  the  wholesale  hypnotizing  of  clever  liter- 
ary people  by  Mr.  Bellamy's  dazzling  vision.  When  they 
come  out  of  the  daze  and  begin  to  assume  their  literary  self- 
direction,  they  may  be  trusted  to  discover  that  equality  of 
income  and  equality  of  satisfaction  of  legitimate  desires  are 
two  different  things. 

Thus  far  we  have  considered  the  practical  fulfilment  of 
Lassalle's  predictions,  and  have  examined  the  economic  and 
moral  character  of  some  tendencies  of  industrial  democracy. 
It  is  evident  that  industrial  democracy  is  an  established  fact, 
and  that  its  enterprises  have  approached  the  margin  of 
expedient  political  activity.  But  it  has  some  further  char- 
acteristics not  foreseen  by  Lassalle,  and  some  that  stand  in 
striking  contradiction  to  his  predictions. 

One  of  these  we  have  already  noticed,  namely,  the  failure 
of  industrial  democracy  to  abolish  indirect  taxation.  More 
remarkable  than  this,  however,  has  been  the  failure  of  the 
Avage-earning  class  to  convert  all  its  own  members,  and  its 
still  more  conspicuous  failure  to  convert  society  in  general, 
to  the  notion  that  political  activity  is  the  only,  or,  under  all 
circumstances,  the  best  method  of  ameliorating  the  life  con- 
ditions of  the  fourth  estate.  Most  happy  has  this  failure 
been  for  the  working  classes  themselves  and  for  the  entire 
community. 

The  political  activity  of  the  working  classes  has  provoked 
a  vast  deal  of  private  activity,  which  has  taken  the  forms 
both  of  cooperative  self-help  by  wage  earners,  and  philan- 


122  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

thropic  effort  by  employers  and  ethically  minded  individuals 
generally,  irrespective  of  their  industrial  relations.  Efforts 
to  equalize  the  terms  of  bargaining,  and  to  improve  the  con- 
ditions under  which  men  live  and  labour,  have  very  clearly 
shown  to  all  observers  endowed  with  moral  sensitiveness  that 
the  labour  question  is  fundamentally  a  moral  no  less  than  an 
economic  problem.  It  has  ceased  to  be  necessary  to  argue 
that  writers  who  ridicule  as  unscientific  any  recognition  of  an 
ethical  element  in  concrete  industrial  problems  are  themselves 
of  all  men  most  unscientific.  They  are  the  ones  who  know 
why  water  must  find  its  level  as  a  theoretical  truth,  but  who 
always  fail  to  tell  us  why  it  never  does  find  its  level  in  fact. 

The  answer  to  the  labour  question,  therefore,  must  in  part 
be  sought  among  facts  and  principles  of  the  moral  order. 
Often  it  has  been  through  a  disregard  of  all  considerations 
of  fairness  and  humanity  that  the  relative  immobility  of 
labour,  as  compared  with  capital,  has  been  taken  advantage  of 
by  employers  to  the  detriment  of  wage  earners.  It  will  be  in 
part  through  the  subordination  of  selfishness  by  moral  con- 
siderations that  better  relations  between  labour  and  capital 
will  be  promoted. 

One  or  the  other  of  two  rules  can  be  adopted  by  every 
employer  in  dealing  with  his  help.  Either  he  can  say :  "  I 
will  buy  labour  at  the  lowest  prices  at  which  the  men  who 
are  nearest  starvation  will  consent  to  work ;  "  or  he  can  say, 
"  I  will  pay  my  help  the  highest  wages  tliat  I  can  afford." 
Both  of  these  rules  are  perfectly  consistent  with  the  law  of 
supply  and  demand.  But  in  their  moral  quality  and  their 
consequences  they  are  as  opposite  as  the  poles.  One  leads 
to  irreconcilable  antagonisms ;  the  other  affords  the  ground 
for  arbitration,  profit-sharing,  or  any  cooperative  expedient 
promising  good  results.  The  former  rule,  systematically 
applied  for  a  series  of  years  throughout  the  entire  commu- 
nity, means  a  progressive  degradation  of  labour,  and  ultimately 
the  righteous  destruction  of  employers'  profits.  The  latter 
rule  means  progressive  elevation  and  increasing  prosperity. 
Under  the  former,  the  labourer  becomes  discouraged,  and  his 
standard  of  living  is  lowered.     The  consequence  of  this  is 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  123 

impaired  efficiency  and  a  diminished  production  of  wealth. 
In  a  lessened  demand  for  labour  and  a  further  reduction  of 
wages  the  cycle  of  causation  is  completed.  This  is  what 
took  place  in  England  during  the  first  half  of  the  present 
century  under  the  teaching  that  unmitigated  selfishness  was 
economic  morality.  In  the  United  States  it  has  more  than 
once  occurred,  —  in  the  Hocking  Valley  of  Ohio,  in  the  min- 
ing regions  of  Pennsylvania  and  of  Illinois.  Under  the 
other  rule,  of  paying  the  highest  wages  that  can  be  afforded, 
the  labourer  is  encouraged  and  stimulated,  his  standard  of 
living  is  raised,  he  creates  more  wealth  for  conversion  into 
capital,  and  accumulating  capital,  by  increasing  the  demand 
for  labour,  tends  further  to  raise  the  rate  of  wages. 

Out  of  these  purely  ethical  considerations  largely,  though 
not  without  reenforcement  from  considerations  of  expediency, 
have  developed  most  of  the  schemes  of  arbitration,  concilia- 
tion, and  profit  sharing.  These  have  multiplied  rapidly 
in  the  United  States  and  elsewhere  within  the  last  twenty- 
five  years,  and  many  of  them  have  met  with  substantial  success. 
Experience,  it  is  true,  has  demonstrated  that  it  is  impossible 
to  find  any  one  plan  of  voluntary  adjustment  of  the  relations 
of  employer  and  employee  which  is  suitable  to  all  circum- 
stances. Yet,  in  general,  the  spirit  of  conciliation  and  the 
numerous  devices  of  profit  sharing  are  flexible  enough  to 
meet  rather  varied  conditions,  and  it  is  probable  that  their 
methods  are  to  undergo  yet  further  development. 

Nevertheless,  the  maxim,  which  the  experience  of  all  ages 
has  verified,  that  the  best  help  is  self-help,  holds  true  of  the 
details  of  industrial  organization  no  less  than  of  that  general 
control  which  the  working  classes  have  been  able  to  exercise 
over  the  industrial  situation  through  their  political  activity. 
However  much  they  of  the  fourth  estate  may  accomplish 
through  legislation  and  governmental  agencies,  they  can  never 
put  themselves  on  a  plane  of  perfect  equality  with  employers 
in  any  other  way  than  by  becoming  themselves  employers. 
This  truth  is  fully  recognized  by  all  intelligent  leaders  of  the 
labour  movement,  and  the  only  fundamental  difference  of  be- 
lief which  divides  them  is  upon  the  question  whether  work- 


124  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ingmen  can  more  certainly  accomplish  this  aim  through  the 
organization  of  voluntary  cooperation  or  through  the  perfec- 
tion of  a  socialistic  organization  of  industry,  in  which  their 
elected  government  agents  would  act  as  industrial  managers. 
The  complete  centralization  of  governmental  management 
within  the  area  of  its  establishment,  even  if  the  socialism 
were  of  the  so-called  municipal  or  decentralized  type,  would 
put  the  weaker,  more  ignorant  elements  of  the  working  popu- 
lation so  completely  at  the  mercy  of  the  politically  adroit  that 
any  real  increase  of  industrial  liberty  would  be  at  the  best 
extremely  doubtful.  This  consideration  is  fully  realized  by 
those  leaders  of  the  cooperative  movement  who  have  most 
earnestly  striven  to  convince  wage  earners  generally  that 
their  only  means  of  securing  complete  economic  emancipa- 
tion lies  in  a  development  of  voluntary  cooperation,  step 
by  step  with  progress  in  the  control  of  general  conditions 
through  democratic  government  and  law. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  theoretical  critic,  this  con- 
tention of  the  cooperators  seems  to  be  entirely  sound.  The 
socialists  are  right  in  maintaining  that  cooperation  would 
stand  little  chance  of  success  in  competition  with  vast  trusts 
and  monopolistic  corporations  in  control  of  transportation, 
and  that  it  is  therefore  necessary  for  the  masses  of  the  people 
through  governmental  agencies  to  establish  a  general  control 
over  all  business  transactions.  But  this,  as  we  have  seen, 
industrial  democracy  is  accomplishing  without  proceeding 
to  the  extreme  of  complete  socialistic  organization.  The 
cooperators  are  right  in  maintaining  that  complete  social- 
istic organization  would  destroy  individual  initiative  and  the 
freedom  of  voluntarily  formed  groups. 

Therefore,  it  is  only  through  the  development  of  free  co- 
operation, within  a  state  which,  in  a  general  way,  is  controlled 
by  industrial  democracy,  that  we  may  expect  to  see  a  rela- 
tively perfect  realization  of  the  two  most  cherished  dreams  of 
both  socialists  and  cooperators,  namely,  a  considerable  diminu- 
tion of  the  present  wastes  of  the  competitive  system,  and  a 
complete  transformation  of  the  wages  system  ;  and  all  without 
endangering  social  stability  or  destroying  individual  freedom. 


INDUSTRIAL   DEMOCRACY  125 

It  is  now  three-quarters  of  a  century  since  the  first  enthu- 
siastic attempts  were  made  by  the  disciples  of  Fourier  and 
Owen  to  reorganize  industry  on  a  cooperative  basis.  The 
disappointments  and  losses  that  have  attended  subsequent 
efforts  in  this  direction  have  been  many  and  great.  But  so 
also  have  been  the  successes ;  and  the  most  sceptical  observer, 
when  he  looks  at  the  facts,  must  admit  that  there  has  been 
enough  substantial  progress  to  warrant  further  efforts. 

In  these  efforts  it  will  be  of  the  first  importance  to  keep 
in  view  a  definite  conception  of  the  objects  of  cooperation 
and  clearly  to  understand  the  methods  which  experience  has 
shown  to  be  best,  each  in  its  relation  to  the  special  object 
that  it  is  specially  adapted  to  and  in  its  relation  to  coordinate 
objects. 

The  primary  object  of  the  cooperative  movement  always 
has  been,  by  a  better  organization  of  economic  activities,  to 
achieve  all  the  useful  results  of  competitive  methods  with 
less  of  waste  and  other  evils. 

Competition  tends  to  reduce  the  prices  of  goods  to  the  cost 
of  production  and  of  handling ;  but  sometimes  it  makes  the 
cost  of  handling  excessive,  and  sometimes  it  cheapens  human 
life.  In  many  ways  it  stimulates  improvement ;  but  in  many 
ways  also  it  is  wasteful  of  resources. 

Distributive  cooperation  on  the  plan  of  the  Rochdale  Pio- 
neers has  approximately  solved  the  problem  of  furnishing 
goods  to  the  consumer  at  cost,  while  reducing  the  expenses 
of  handling  to  the  lowest  amount.  This  is  done  by  dividing 
among  purchasing  members  all  the  profits  on  sales  after  de- 
ducting actual  expenses,  including  interest  on  capital,  and, 
under  a  true  cooperative  system,  a  sharing  of  profits  with 
employees.  Productive  cooperation  in  alliance  with  coopera- 
tive distribution,  in  a  measure  prevents  the  losses  that  may 
at  any  time  follow  the  speculative  production  of  goods  for 
an  imperfectly  known  demand.  This  is  the  object  of  that 
federation  of  cooperative  undertakings  which  has  made  im- 
portant progress  in  Great  Britain.  A  wider  and  more  nearly 
perfect  federation  may  ultimately  diminish  waste  to  an  almost 
unimagined  degree.     The  aim  will  be  to  bring  the  production 


126  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

and  distribution  of  goods  into  such  relations  that  certain  stores 
will  take  all  the  product  of  certain  farms  and  factories,  the 
latter  always  to  be  steadily  at  work  a  certain  number  of  hours 
each  day. 

It  must  never  be  forgotten,  however,  that  the  saving  of 
waste  by  the  federation  of  co(5perative  enterprises,  like  the 
saving  of  expense  by  combinations,  pools,  and  trusts,  is  lim- 
ited strictly  to  the  field  of  the  continuous  production  of  goods 
which  are  for  a  relatively  long  period  not  changing  in  form 
or  in  quality,  and  by  methods  and  machinery  which,  in  like 
manner,  are  for  the  time  being  satisfactory.  The  moment  that 
change  of  any  sort  is  introduced  in  the  conditions  of  produc- 
tion, the  entire  organization  of  distribution  must,  in  a  meas- 
ure, change  its  operation  also.  Moreover,  competition  in  some 
form  is  a  permanent  factor  in  life  and  in  industry.  Individ- 
uals and  combinations  of  individuals  will  always  be  as  un- 
equal in  power  as  they  are  unlike  in  aptitude  and  in  purposes. 
While  competition  can  be  diverted  from  one  to  another  chan- 
nel, can  here  and  there  be  suppressed,  and  can  be  compelled 
to  take  unobjectionable  rather  than  destructive  forms,  the 
competition  itself  persists.  For  this  reason  the  federation 
of  cooperative  undertakings,  if  it  is  to  be  successful,  must 
at  all  times  be  flexible,  always  giving  opportunity  for  enter- 
prises that  wish  to  introduce  new  methods  or  new  goods  to 
come  into  the  field  on  advantageous  terms,  and  providing  for 
winding  up,  with  a  minimum  of  loss,  those  concerns  that  have 
ceased  to  be  profitable,  through  the  discontinuance  of  a  former 
demand  or  the  passing  away  of  old  methods  and  mechanisms. 

But  distributive  cooperation  in  coordination  with  cooper- 
ative production  does  not  of  itself  help  workers  in  their 
earning  capacity.  It  aids  them  merely  as  consumers,  while 
competition  in  another  form  may  be  reducing  their  wages, 
deepening  the  poverty  of  the  many,  and  concentrating  great 
fortunes  in  a  few  hands.  Not  that  cooperative  distribution 
must  cause  a  fall  of  wages,  as  Lassalle  assumed  when  he 
said  that  "  so  soon  as  the  cooperative  stores  more  and  more 
embrace  the  whole  working  class,  it  will  be  seen  as  a  neces- 
sary consequence  that  wages,  owing  to  the  cheapness  of  the 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  127 

necessaries  of  life,  '  the  result  of  the  cooperative  stores,'  will 
fall  in  precise  proportion."  There  is  no  such  "  necessary- 
sequence  "  if,  as  a  result  of  more  generous  subsistence  and 
of  the  discipline  of  cooperation,  the  worker  becomes  at  once 
more  efficient  and  more  prudent,  raising  his  standard  of  living 
in  all  that  pertains  to  mental  and  moral  well-being  as  rapidly 
as  he  reduces  the  cost  of  obtaining  the  bare  necessaries  of  ex- 
istence. Competition  permanently  lowers  real  wages  only 
when  it  impairs  the  workers'  moral  and  physical  powers. 
That,  however,  it  must  be  admitted,  often  happens.  A  more 
equal  distribution  of  wealth  is  followed  by  a  decreased  pro- 
duction only  when  there  is  no  corresponding  development  of 
manhood.     But  that  sometimes  happens. 

In  either  case,  a  way  to  prevent  the  unhappy  consumma- 
tion, without  impairing  the  general  scheme  of  cooperation, 
must  be  found  in  some  plan  of  industrial  partnership  applied 
to  both  productive  and  distributive  enterprise.  By  industrial 
partnership  is  always  to  be  understood  an  arrangement  much 
more  radical  in  character  than  that  which  is  commonly  known 
as  profit  sharing.  Most  of  the  profit-sharing  schemes  involve 
nothing  more  than  the  distribution  of  a  bonus  in  addition  and 
in  proportion  to  wages.  The  bonus  is  theoretically  supposed 
to  be,  and  in  practice  usually  is,  the  approximate  equivalent  of 
additional  wealth  produced  by  the  employees  through  increased 
diligence,  carefulness,  and  attention  to  detail.  Under  the 
direction  of  a  competent  and  just  employer  the  profit-shar- 
ing arrangement  often  results  in  great  benefit  to  employees. 
Their  powers  are  stimulated,  their  productive  capacity  is  in- 
creased, and,  in  reality  as  in  theory,  their  interest  is  identified 
with  the  prosperity  of  their  employer.  If,  however,  the  divi- 
dend to  labour  is  merely  a  bonus,  and  the  worker's  relation  to 
the  corporation  or  proprietor  is  that  of  an  employee  only,  he 
has  no  share  in  controlling  the  conditions  under  which  he 
works,  and  the  chief  aim  of  industrial  democracy  is  not  real- 
ized. 

To  give  to  the  workers  the  desired  share  of  control  is  the 
object  of  the  true  industrial  partnership,  in  which  the  workers 
are  no  longer  merely  employees,  but  are  also  stockholders. 


128  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

This  relation  may  exist  from  the  first  if  the  enterprise  is 
started  as  a  cooperative  undertaking,  the  workers  paying  ia 
the  capital  in  the  first  instance  ;  or  it  may  be  developed  grad- 
ually out  of  the  profit-sharing  scheme,  as  was  done  under 
Godin's  direction  in  the  famous  experiment  at  Guise  in 
France,  by  converting  the  dividends  to  labour  into  certifi- 
cates of  stock. 

Even  under  industrial  partnership,  however,  as  it  has 
almost  invariably  been  organized,  the  wages  system  has 
remained.  The  cooperators  have  been  in  one  capacity  em- 
ployers, in  another  capacity  employees.  They  have  as  indi- 
viduals hired  themselves  to  the  corporation  in  which  they 
are  stockholders,  and  have  accepted  the  prevailing  rates  of 
wages  as  the  major  part  of  their  remuneration.  Any  bonus  in 
addition  has  been  distributed  either  as  a  percentage  on  wages 
or  as  a  dividend  on  stock.  Thus  the  wages  system  has  been 
continued ;  certain  essential  features  of  the  regime  of  status 
have  remained ;  and  possibly,  as  Mr.  Spencer  contends,  these 
have  been  one  cause  of  the  frequent  failure  of  cooperative 
undertakings. 

The  remedy  which  Mr.  Spencer  proposes  is  as  simple  as 
it  is  ingenious ;  and  should  it  prove  to  be  effective  in  prac- 
tice, it  would,  beyond  a  doubt,  be  that  perfect  substitute  for 
the  wage  system  which  a  regime  of  free  contract,  from  which 
all  survivals  of  status  were  eliminated,  would  call  for.  It 
consists  in  the  substitution  of  payment  by  the  piece,  or  of 
sub-contracting,  for  wages.  The  first  thought  of  a  reader 
familiar  with  the  prevailing  views  of  workingraen  is  that  this 
is  an  astonishingly  impractical  suggestion,  because  no  one  fea- 
ture of  modern  industrial  life  is  more  generally  and  intensely 
hated  by  the  working  classes  than  the  system  of  piece  pay- 
ment. It  is  simply  a  device,  they  hold,  to  stimulate  the 
worker's  powers  to  the  utmost  tension  until  the  limit  of  his 
productive  capacity  is  discovered,  and  then  to  cut  the  piece 
rates  to  so  low  a  figure  that  only  by  the  most  intense  activity 
can  the  worker  earn  a  normal  day's  wage.  ^Ir.  Spencer,  how- 
ever, has  fully  considered  this  fact,  and  shows  that  it  has  no 
bearing  whatever  on  the  problem  when  the  piece  price  is  ap- 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  129 

plied  to  cooperative  undertakings.  Piece  payment  has  been 
rejected  by  cooperators  because,  as  workingmen,  they  have 
carried  with  them  their  prejudice  against  it  without  reflecting 
that  all  the  conditions  which  make  piece  payments  burdensome 
and  odious  when  managed  by  a  private  employer  or  an  employ- 
ing corporation,  would  disappear  under  cooperation.  Perhaps 
Mr.  Spencer's  most  original  and  valuable  contribution  to 
industrial  theory  is  his  clear  analysis  of  the  conditions  that 
have  created  the  prejudice  against  piece  payment,  and  his 
proof  that  none  of  them  would  exist  under  cooperation.  To 
see  exactly  wherein  the  difference  lies,  we  have  only  to  sup- 
pose that  cooperators  in  their  capacity  as  employers  should 
apply  to  themselves  as  employees  the  methods  which  piece- 
price-paying  corporations  commonly  apply  to  their  hired 
workingmen ;  that,  namely,  of  continually  cutting  the  pay- 
ments for  piece  work.  They  would  thereby  simply  increase 
the  dividend  to  be  distributed  among  themselves  as  owners  of 
the  business ;  and  since  this  dividend,  after  the  payment  of 
interest  on  capital  held  in  the  form  of  stock,  would  be  dis- 
tributed according  to  each  worker's  production,  each  would 
fare  exactly  as  he  would  if  the  piece  rate  were  high.  Thus, 
under  this  plan  of  cooperation,  each  man  would  work  under 
conditions  as  nearly  as  possible  like  those  enjoyed  by  men 
conducting  small  business  enterprises  —  such  as  farming  or 
shop  keeping  —  on  their  own  responsibility,  and  making  more 
or  less  income  according  to  their  individual  abilities. 

With  reference  also  to  the  adaptability  of  cooperative  or- 
ganization to  changing  industrial  conditions,  the  piece  pay- 
ment or  sub-contracting  system  would  be  highly  advantageous, 
inasmuch  as  it  would  give  free  play  to  the  rivalry  of  individ- 
ual abilities.  It  would  permit  individual  competition  to  work 
itself  out  productively  in  the  most  beneficial  ways. 

Of  course  the  sceptical  question  must  be  raised.  Can  any 
mere  device,  however  admirable  it  may  be  in  itself,  enable 
workingmen  to  substitute  an  industrial  democracy  for  the 
wages  system  ?  And  to  this  we  must  answer  both  "  no  "  and 
"  yes."  Smoothly  working  administrative  devices  are  essen- 
tial to  human  cooperation,  and  man}'  plans  doubtless  fail  for 


130  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

lack  of  them.  Experience  alone  can  determine  whether  Mr. 
Spencer's  suggestion  is  one  of  those  apparently  trifling  inven- 
tions that  sometimes  transform  great  potentialities  into  great 
actualities  in  social  as  in  material  machinery.  But  Mr.  Spen- 
cer himself  is  careful  to  say  that  the  working  of  any  social 
machinery  depends  on  character.  Democracy  will  ulti- 
mately succeed  in  productive  industry  if  workingmen  have 
the  requisite  intelligence,  patience,  and  reasonableness ;  other- 
wise it  will  not. 

Tliis  last  consideration  brings  us  naturally  to  a  problem 
of  industrial  democracy  which  is  nearly  fundamental.  Obvi- 
ously, there  can  be  no  true  industrial  democracy  unless  the 
risks  of  enterprise,  as  well  as  the  possible  profits,  are  shared 
by  all  who  share  in  industrial  control.  The  objection  to 
profit  sharing  which  has  often  been  urged  by  business  men 
unconvinced  of  the  justice  of  the  scheme,  that  profit  sharing 
should  carry  with  it  as  its  necessary  correlative  some  meas- 
ure of  risk  sharing,  is  absolutely  sound  in  principle,  and  the 
principle  is  as  broad  as  the  entire  plan  of  industrial  democ- 
racy itself. 

It  is,  however,  a  great  mistake  to  look  upon  risk  sharing 
as  an  offset  to  the  benefits  of  any  form  of  industrial  partner- 
ship. From  the  standpoint  of  the  general  welfare  of  society, 
risk  sharing  is  the  chief  beneficial  feature  of  any  experiment 
in  industrial  democracy.  Progressive  minds  and  conserva- 
tive, prudent  minds  are  alike  products  of  the  adjustment  of 
human  life  to  conditions  that  involve  the  element  of  risk ;  and 
no  portion  of  the  population  that  is  shielded  from  those  con- 
ditions can  contribute  to  a  progressive  evolution  of  industry, 
or  play  the  part  of  sober-minded  citizens  in  a  republic. 

Indeed,  the  time  has  come  to  call  attention  sharply  to  the 
superlative  importance  of  risk  sharing  by  the  wage-earning 
population.  It  is  because  so  large  a  proportion  of  this  popu- 
lation has  no  concrete  and  definite  stake  in  industrial  methods 
that  it  so  often  resists  advantageous  changes  in  machinery 
and  processes ;  and  it  is  when  a  large  part  of  the  wage- 
earning  population  has  no  concrete  and  definite  property  stake 
in  the  stability  of  society  that  society  is  confronted  by  real 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  131 

danger.  It  is  proper  to  study  the  means  by  which  to  in- 
crease the  income  of  the  working  population,  and  by  which 
to  increase  its  control  over  the  conditions  under  which  it 
must  labour ;  but  the  effort  must  not  stop  here.  It  is  even 
more  essential  to  increase  the  workingmen's  sense  of  respon- 
sibility. 

Wages  have  been  rising  for  half  a  century ;  but  the  natu- 
ral connection  between  labour  and  ownership,  as  the  means 
by  which  labour  is  made  effective,  has  been  severed  in  the 
larger  manufacturing  industries.  This  connection  was  a  real 
one  in  the  days  when  it  was  possible  for  any  workman  of 
good  parts  to  become  the  owner  of  a  shop.  It  is  still  a  real 
one,  most  fortunately,  in  the  agricultural  industries  of  the 
countries  where  working  farmers  own  the  land.  There  is 
no  stronger  defence  against  socialistic  radicalism  in  France 
or  in  the  United  States  to-day  than  this  very  fact  that,  through- 
out the  agricultural  population,  the  interests  of  capital  and 
of  labour  are,  to  a  great  extent,  identified  in  a  normal  way. 
Under  existing  industrial  conditions  there  is  no  way  in  which 
this  identity  can  be  reestablished  in  the  manufacturing,  min- 
ing, and  transportation  industries  except  by  some  form  of 
industrial  partnership  or  by  a  definite  relation  between  the 
employing  corporation  and  an  incorporated  labour  organiza- 
tion ;  some  arrangement,  in  fact,  which  transfers  to  the  work- 
ers a  measure  of  control,  with  a  definite  prospect  of  profit 
or  loss  to  result  from  wisdom  or  mistake.  Any  arrangement 
should  be  welcomed  which  restores  to  workingmen  their  due 
proportion  of  the  responsibilities  that  should  rest  on  all  mem- 
bers of  organized  society. 

There  remains  now  to  be  noticed,  in  conclusion,  a  final 
limitation  of  industrial  democracy,  and  a  failure  in  one  par- 
ticular of  Lassalle's  predictions,  which  is  perhaps  more  signifi- 
cant than  any  that  we  have  thus  far  discussed. 

The  class  which  Lassalle  thought  incapable  of  any  further 
subdivision  has  proven  to  be  no  more  nearly  coextensive 
with  humanity  than  the  bourgeoisie  was  ;  and  it  is  separating 
into  two  subdivisions  as  the  bourgeoisie  did,  one  of  which  is 


132  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

undertaking  to  domineer  over  the  other,  as  the  rich  bour- 
geoisie domineered  over  the  poor.  Workingmen  have  sepa- 
rated into  organized  and  unorganized  labour ;  and  organized 
labour  stands  in  just  the  same  attitude  toward  unorganized 
labour  that  the  mediaeval  landlords  maintained  toward  the 
traders,  and  the  European  capitalists  of  half  a  century  ago 
toward  the  workingmen.  Organized  labour  insists  that  it 
alone  shall  dictate  the  conditions  of  employment.  It  levies 
a  tax  on  the  individual  workingman,  and  requires  his  alle- 
giance, as  the  conditions  on  which  it  permits  him  to  earn  a 
living ;  and  it  carries  its  imitation  of  the  conduct  of  landlord 
and  capitalist  to  the  last  degree  by  heaping  obloquy  on  the 
man  who  refuses  to  belong  to  a  labour  organization,  and  dub- 
bing him  a  scab. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  it  follows  that  the  rule  of  the  fourth 
estate  has  not  yet  harmonized  class  interests  and  affected  the 
moral  regeneration  of  society.  It  is  the  rule  of  a  class,  as 
each  regime  that  preceded  it  was  the  rule  of  a  class.  The 
weakness  and  the  limitation  of  democracy,  whether  in  the 
political  or  in  the  industrial  sphere,  is  not  essentially  different 
from  the  weakness  and  the  limitation  of  aristocracy.  A 
majority  may  be  as  despotic  as  a  minority.  In  either  case, 
society  is  divided  against  itself.  Instead  of  perfect  confi- 
dence and  cooperation  between  classes,  and  an  appeal  to 
reason  and  fair  play  for  the  adjustment  of  their  differences, 
there  remains  a  degree  of  jealousy  and  conflict. 

Because  of  facts  like  these,  it  is  practically  certain  that 
socialism,  could  it  be  established,  would  not  be  democratic,  in 
that  sense  of  the  word  which  appeals  to  the  wage  earner  of 
to-day.  It  would  not  be  a  control  of  industry  by  men  who 
are  the  wage  earners  now.  A  popular  notion  that  the 
"masses"  are  wage  earners  and  nothing  more,  is  not  true. 
The  "masses"  are  property-owning  farmers,  small  tradesmen, 
business  men,  and  professional  men.  Under  socialism,  tliese 
men  collectively  could  outvote  all  others,  just  as  collectively 
they  can  outvote  all  others  now.  Socialistic  writers  not  only 
admit  this,  but  they  actually  are  socialists  instead  of  cooper- 
ators  because  they  know  it  to  be  true.     They  believe  that 


INDUSTRIAL  DEMOCRACY  133 

socialism  would  succeed  where  cooperation  fails  because 
socialism  would  command  the  services  of  all  the  best  brains. 
Yet  they  want  to  bring  socialism  about  in  order  to  give  the 
*' proletariat "  a  chance  to  manage  industry.  Such  is  the 
paradox  of  this  curious  creed. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  that,  during  those  years  when  in 
Germany  Lassalle  was  proclaiming  the  workingman's  pro- 
gramme— in  France,  the  country  where  the  idea  of  social 
revolution  had  its  birth,  a  profound  sociologist,  Frederick  Le 
Play,  who  by  travel  and  residence  among  the  most  diversely 
constituted  communities  of  Europe  and  Asia  had  studied 
social  institutions  at  first  hand  more  thoroughly  than  any 
other  man  of  his  generation,  was  trying  to  convince  his 
countrymen  that  the  way  toward  happiness  and  social 
welfare  lay  in  the  opposite  direction  from  democratic 
tendencies.  He  claimed  that  the  greatest  prosperity  and 
comfort  existed  in  those  communities  that  cherished  tradi- 
tional customs  and  preserved  a  semi-patriarchal,  semi-frater- 
nal constitution ;  the  many  yielding  a  loyal  allegiance  to  the 
superior  few,  and  the  few  using  their  authority  for  the  good 
of  the  many.  He  believed  that,  when  the  democratic  move- 
ment had  run  its  course,  there  would  be  a  return  to  earlier 
institutions. 

Society  will  not  go  back  to  the  patriarchal  type ;  yet  there 
was  an  element  of  truth  in  Le  Play's  views.  The  course  of 
evolution  will  be  midway  between  the  extremes  that  Le  Play 
and  Lassalle  predicted.  The  equalization  of  power  will  go 
on,  and  it  is  desirable  that  it  should.  There  will  be  an 
increasing  control  by  workingmen,  not  only  in  government, 
but  in  the  industrial  organization  itself.  But  it  will  be  offset 
through  a  still  further  equilibration  of  social  forces,  by  a 
greater  deference  than  exists  at  present  to  natural  leadership 
—  to  the  minority  who  have  the  capacity  to  direct  and  to 
organize.  That  deference  in  the  past  was  to  some  degree 
enforced.  The  leaders  at  times  had  absolute  power  and 
compelled  obedience.  It  will  exist  in  the  future  as  a  vol- 
untary allegiance,  and  power  and  leadership  will  therefore 
be    conditioned   by   responsibility.     Its    reestablishment    on 


134  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

these  terms  will  be  a  very  gradual  process,  but  a  certain  one : 
slow,  because  it  can  go  on  only  as  fast  as  the  captains  of 
industry  acknowledge  and  act  upon  their  responsibility  to 
the  majority ;  certain,  because  they  can  retain  their  own  due 
share  of  influence  and  power  in  no  other  way. 


VII 
THE  TRUSTS  AND  THE  PUBLIC 


VII 
THE  TRUSTS  AND  THE  PUBLIC 

The  trust  presents  problems  of  the  most  important  charac- 
ter to  the  business  man,  to  the  lawyer,  to  the  statesman,  and 
to  the  political  economist,  and  the  subject  is  much  too  large  to 
be  discussed,  in  an  all-round  way,  in  a  single  brief  paper. 
In  what  I  now  have  to  say  I  shall  speak  only  from  the  stand- 
point of  the  student  of  economic  theory,  leaving  to  others 
the  consideration  of  the  trust  in  its  relation  to  political  and 
legal  expediency.  Moreover,  I  shall  speak  neither  as  an 
advocate  nor  as  an  opponent  of  the  trust  on  grounds  of  eco- 
nomic expediency,  but  solely  as  an  observer,  who  is  interested 
to  see  what  the  trust  does  in  fact  do  and  what  in  fact  it  does 
not  do,  as  an  influence  acting  upon  the  production,  the  con- 
sumption, and  the  prices  of  goods. 

At  the  outset  I  make  two  assumptions.  The  first  is  that 
the  trust  as  a  form  of  business  organization  could  never  have 
become  the  great  factor  in  the  commercial  world  that  it  is 
to-day,  and  could  never  have  taken  the  hold  upon  the  minds 
of  business  men  that  it  has  taken,  if  it  had  not  been  an  effi- 
cient device  for  dealing  with  existing  industrial  conditions. 
Combinations  of  human  forces  are  soon  disorganized  unless 
they  produce  results  which  justify  them.  It  is  therefore  idle 
to  say  that  the  trust  is  an  incubus  upon  the  commercial 
world  so  long  as  it  grows  and  multiplies  as  it  has  done  in 
recent  years. 

My  second  assumption  is  that  intelligent  and  educated  men 
do  not  really  believe  the  often  repeated  saying  that  a  rule  or 
policy  may  be  sound  in  theory  but  bad  in  practice.  There  is  no 
conflict  between  practice  and  sound  theory.    Any  theory  that  is 

137 


138  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

not  confirmed  and  fortified  by  practice  is  false  theory,  and 
as  such  should  be  discarded.  If  a  bridge  which  has  been  con- 
structed in  accordance  with  a  certain  engineering  theory  gives 
way  under  the  strain  that  its  builders  have  expected  it  to 
endure,  civil  engineers  do  not  say  that  the  theory  is  good  as 
theory,  but  is  bad  in  practice.  They  say  that  the  theory  itself 
is  false.  Both  business  men  and  economists  should  regard 
economic  theory  in  the  same  way.  If  experience  demonstrates 
that  economic  theories  which  have  been  taught  in  the  text- 
books and  in  the  lecture  room  are  not  confirmed  by  business 
practice,  the  only  conclusion  that  the  clear-headed  thinker 
can  draw  is  that  the  theories  themselves  are  inadequate  or 
erroneous.  I  make  no  further  apology,  therefore,  for  assum- 
ing that  both  the  business  man  and  the  economist  have  a  real 
interest  in  discovering  a  true  and  adequate  theory  of  the  rela- 
tion of  the  trust  to  expansions  and  contractions  of  production, 
and  to  the  course  of  market  prices. 

The  general  public  undoubtedly  believes  that  trusts  are 
able  to  make  consumers  pay  more  for  all  goods  which  the 
trusts  control  than  would  be  paid  under  conditions  of  free 
competition.  The  economist  should  be  able  to  say  whether 
this  prevalent  belief  is  a  great  truth  or  a  great  delusion.  Let 
us,  then,  look  for  a  moment  at  the  principles  involved,  and 
try  to  decide  whether  it  is  possible  to  state  the  economic  law 
of  price  in  a  modern  way  —  by  which  I  mean,  a  way  which 
takes  account  of  modern,  as  distinguished  from  old-fashioned 
and  outgrown,  business  methods. 

Imagine  a  commercial  world  in  which  the  output  of  every 
important  product  is  controlled  by  a  single  organization. 
Imagine  that  the  entire  wheat  crop  is  commercially  controlled 
by  one  trust,  the  cotton  crop  by  another,  the  iron  and  steel 
output  by  another,  the  paper  output  by  yet  another,  and  so 
on  through  the  entire  list  of  marketable  goods.  In  such  a 
commercial  world,  so  organized,  would  each  of  these  great 
trusts  be  able  to  fix  prices  in  accordance  with  its  own  desire 
to  amass  wealth  and  pay  dividends,  irrespective  of  the  wishes 
and  efforts  of  consumers?  The  j^-e vailing  opinion  among 
consumers  is,  I  think,  that  just  such  a  thing  would  happen ; 


THE  TRUSTS  AND  THE  PUBLIC  139 

and  therefore  the  consumer  finds  himself  regarding  the  trust 
as  a  gigantic  power  for  extortion. 

The  truth,  on  the  contrary,  is  that  by  no  conceivable  possi- 
bility could  any  such  thing  happen ;  and  to  make  the  point 
perfectly  clear  I  will  ask  you  to  try  to  follow  me  in  a  demon- 
stration which,  in  its  reasoning,  is  essentially  mathematical, 
but  is  not  especially  difficult.  Obviously,  if  every  product 
were  controlled  by  a  single  trust,  the  situation  would  be  pre- 
cisely the  same,  as  far  as  prices  were  concerned,  that  it  would 
be  if  each  product  were  controlled  by  a  single  individual. 
Let  us,  then,  designate  each  product  by  a  single  small  letter, 
a^  5,  c,  £?,  e,  etc.,  and  designate  the  persons  in  control  of 
each  product  by  a  single  capital  letter.  A,  B,  C,  D,  E,  etc. 
The  commercial  world,  then,  is  made  up  of  the  individuals 
A,  B,  C,  D,  E,  each  of  whom  is  the  producer  of  some  great 
marketable  commodity,  and  each  of  whom  is  the  consumer  of 
the  commodities  controlled  by  his  fellow-producers.  Now  it 
may  seem  that  A,  who,  we  will  suppose,  is  the  producer  and 
controller  of  wheat,  can  compel  B,  C,  D,  and  E  to  pay  extor- 
tionate prices  for  every  bushel  they  demand,  because,  since 
no  one  else  in  the  world  can  supply  wheat,  they  must  buy  of 
A  or  starve.  In  like  manner,  it  may  appear  that  B,  C,  and 
D,  the  producers  of  cotton,  steel,  and  paper,  can  charge  ex- 
tortionate prices  because  they  command  the  only  known  sup- 
ply. This  is  the  assumption  that  the  general  public  makes. 
It  is,  however,  an  assumption  which  has  all  the  charac- 
teristics of  an  inadequate,  and  therefore  a  false,  economic 
theory.  It  would  be  true  only  on  one  condition,  namely, 
that  the  consumption  of  goods  was  strictly  limited  to  those 
small  quantities  that  are  absolutely  necessary  to  support  ex- 
istence. That  condition,  however,  practically  never  exists 
in  the  real  world ;  for  human  wants  are  indefinitely  expan- 
sive, and  every  known  commodity  can  be  applied  to  a  great 
number  of  different  uses  besides  the  primary  one  of  support- 
ing life.  Wheat,  for  example,  is  used  not  only  as  a  food  prod- 
uct, but  in  enormous  quantities  is  converted  into  starch, 
dyestuffs,  and  other  chemical  products.  Cotton  is  used  not 
only  for  necessary  clothing,  but  in  vastly  greater  quantities 


140  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

for  purposes  of  comfort,  convenience,  and  ornamentation. 
Paper  is  used  not  merely  for  absolutely  necessary  records, 
accounts,  and  communications,  but  in  enormously  greater 
quantities  for  pleasure,  and  even  for  trifling  satisfactions. 

While,  therefore,  an  individual  who  absolutely  controlled 
the  supply  of  any  given  commodity  might  conceivably  com- 
pel his  fellow-men  to  pay  extortionate  prices  for  that  very 
small  percentage  of  his  product  which  was  absolutely  indis- 
pensable to  their  existence,  by  no  possibility  could  he  compel 
them  to  pay  such  prices  for  that  vastly  greater  percentage 
which  they  desired  merely  for  purposes  of  convenience,  com- 
fort, and  pleasure.  This  percentage  they  would  buy  or  not, 
according  as  they  thought  that  they  could  or  could  not  afford 
it  at  the  price  which  was  demanded. 

And  this  is  not  all.  Our  comforts  and  pleasures  are  ex- 
tremely variable  things.  Very  few  of  us  feel  in  any  degree 
bound  to  choose  one  form  of  merely  convenient  or  pleasurable 
satisfaction  rather  than  another.  We  have  preferences,  of 
course,  but  we  subject  our  preferences,  after  all,  to  a  rather 
rigid  economic  control.  If,  for  example,  I  think  that  I  would 
like  a  new  set  of  china  for  my  dinner  table,  but  discover  that 
the  price  is  much  higher  than  I  expected  to  have  to  pay, 
while,  at  the  same  time,  I  discover  that  some  other  article  of 
household  decoration,  which  I  had  believed  to  be  quite  be- 
yond my  means,  is  offered  at  a  surprisingly  low  price,  the 
chances  are  that  I  shall  postpone  my  indulgence  in  china  and 
purchase  the  alternative  satisfaction.  Now  this  principle,  as 
everybody  knows,  is  practically  a  universal  law  of  human  na- 
ture ;  and  a  law  of  human  nature  is  an  economic  law,  which 
the  producers  and  sellers  of  goods  are  compelled,  in  the  long 
run,  to  obey. 

What,  then,  would  be  the  actual  situation  in  which  our 
imaginary  producers.  A,  B,  C,  D,  and  E,  each  having  absolute 
control  of  a  particular  product,  would  find  themselves  placed  ? 
They  could,  if  they  chose,  limit  production  to  those  very 
small  quantities  of  commodity  which  men  must  have  or  die  ; 
but  if  they  did  this.  A,  B,  C,  D,  and  E  would  themselves  live 
and  die  poor  men.     No  great  fortune  would  ever  be  amassed 


THE  TRUSTS  AND  THE  PUBLIC  141 

by  that  policy.  The  alternative  confronting  them,  then, 
would  be  to  encourage  the  development  of  a  multiplicity  of 
uses  for  their  respective  products,  and  a  liberal  consumption 
to  be  met  by  a  large  production ;  and  this  they  could  do  only 
by  offering  their  goods  at  reasonable  prices. 

This  alternative  adopted,  our  imaginary  producer  would 
instantly  make  a  most  interesting  discovery  —  the  discovery, 
namely,  that  he  was  living  and  producing  in  a  world  ruled 
by  competition,  and  not,  as  he  had  supposed,  by  monopoly. 
Until  now  he  had  imagined  that  the  only  kind  of  competi- 
tion which  he  had  to  fear  was  a  competition  between  him- 
self and  some  other  producer  of  the  same  sort  of  commodity 
which  he  was  producing  and  offering.  That  is  to  say,  A  had 
thought  of  competition  as  coming  only  from  some  other  A, 
A,'  A,"  etc.  B,  in  like  manner,  had  thought  of  competition  as 
coming  only  from  some  other  B,  B,'  B,"  etc.  and  he  had  sup- 
posed that  in  getting  rid  of  such  competition  he  had  suppressed 
competition  for  good  and  all.  But  now  he  discovers  that  the 
real  competition  of  the  real  business  world  is  not  the  compe- 
tition between  A  and  A,'  or  between  B  and  B';  it  is  the  com- 
petition between  A  and  B,  between  A  and  C,  between  B  and 
C,  between  C  and  D,  and  so  on.  In  other  words,  it  is  not 
the  competition  between  one  seller  of  wheat  and  another 
seller  of  wheat,  between  one  manufacturer  of  cotton  and 
another  manufacturer  of  cotton,  that  really  rules  the  business 
world ;  it  is  rather  the  competition  between  the  producer  of 
wheat  and  the  producer  of  cotton,  the  producer  of  cotton  and 
the  producer  of  iron,  the  producer  of  iron  and  the  producer 
of  paper,  and  so  on,  which  really  controls  the  course  of  prices. 
This  competition  is  real,  it  is  inevitable,  it  is  controlling, 
because  of  the  ineradicable  fact  that  each  of  the  producers 
is  appealing  to  a  consuming  public  whose  purchasing  power 
is  limited.  The  consuming  public  is  not  at  present,  and  so 
far  as  human  foresight  can  now  perceive  it  never  will  be,  in 
the  enjoyment  of  an  unlimited  income.  Consequently,  if 
the  world  buys  more  wheat,  more  cotton,  and  more  iron,  it 
will,  sooner  or  later,  and  for  a  limited  time,  buy  less  paper, 
less  china,  less  furniture,  and  other  things.     Every  industry, 


142  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

then,  is  appealing  to  a  consuming  public  to  which  every  other 
industry  is  appealing,  and  which  cannot  buy  unlimited  quan- 
tities of  commodity  from  each  industry.  This  simply  means 
that  when  one  group  of  producers  demands  unusually  high 
prices,  all  other  groups  of  producers  can  very  considerably 
increase  their  sales,  in  virtue  of  that  law  of  human  nature 
according  to  which  men  can  and  do,  to  a  great  extent,  sub- 
stitute one  group  of  conveniences  and  pleasures  for  another, 
postpone  certain  enjoyments  for  a  time,  and  distribute  their 
expenditures  at  all  times  in  such  a  way  as  to  obtain  the 
greatest  satisfaction  for  a  given  outlay. 

Dropping  now  this  figure  of  an  imaginary  world  in  which 
each  product  is  absolutely  controlled  by  a  single  producer, 
we  observe  in  the  actual  business  world  of  to-day  a  certain 
approximation  to  the  condition  of  things  which  has  been 
described.  Nearly  every  important  industry  is  now  con- 
trolled by  a  trust  or  a  business  organization  closely  resem- 
bling a  trust.  This  means  that,  to  a  considerable  extent,  the 
competition  of  A  with  A,'  of  B  with  B,'  and  of  C  with  C/ 
has  been  brought  under  control.  It  does  not  mean  and  it 
cannot  mean  that  the  competition  of  A  with  B,  of  A  with 
O,  and  so  on  through  the  entire  list  has  been  suppressed.  It 
still  remains  true  that  the  greater  part  of  nearly  every  com- 
modity is  produced  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  comfort  and 
convenience,  rather  than  those  of  absolute  necessity.  It  still 
remains  true,  furthermore,  that  consumers  can  and  will  cur- 
tail any  particular  group  of  comforts  and  conveniences  when 
their  prices  rise  beyond  a  certain  limit,  and  expand  the  enjoy- 
ment of  other  comforts  and  conveniences  if  their  prices  are 
lower.  It  still  remains  true,  in  short,  that  producers  organ- 
ized into  trusts,  quite  as  much  as  producers  who  compete 
with  one  another,  are  offering  their  commodities  to  a  con- 
suming public  whose  annual  income  is  a  limited  amount 
of  purchasing  power,  —  a  public  which,  therefore,  distributes 
its  commercial  favours  unequally  among  all  these  different 
trusts,  and  therefore  compels  the  trusts  to  compete  with  one 
another,  however  perfectly  each  trust  may  have  suppressed 
competition  among  its  own  producing  members. 


THE  TRUSTS  AND  THE   PUBLIC  143 

There  need  be  no  fear,  then,  I  take  it,  that  the  consuming 
public  is  to  be  brought  under  economic  subjection  by  the 
trust.  Competition  disappears  in  one  form  only  to  reappear 
in  other  forms.  Economic  law  is  as  inexorable  as  the  law 
of  gravitation,  and  business  will  never  cease  to  be  controlled 
by  it. 

The  trust,  like  any  other  form  of  human  organization,  may 
do  evil  as  well  as  good ;  but  it  is  not  now  my  purpose  to  dis- 
cuss the  trust  in  its  moral  aspects.  Much  harm,  I  think, 
has  been  done  already  by  confusing  the  moral,  the  legal,  and 
the  political  aspects  of  trusts  with  their  economic  function. 
No  sensible  man  would  think  of  condemning  a  business  career 
as  immoral,  as  illegal,  or  as  contrary  to  public  policy  just 
because  business  men  have  been  known  to  cheat  their  cus- 
tomers, to  defraud  their  creditors,  and  to  bribe  officials.  Is 
it  any  less  irrational  to  denounce  the  trust  as  an  unrighteous 
invention  because  trusts  have  been  known  to  do  things  which 
the  moral  consciousness  of  mankind  condemns,  and  which 
good  citizenship  pronounces  contrary  to  public  policy?  The 
trust  should  be  dispassionately  regarded,  and  calmly  studied 
as  a  form  of  organization  which  is  powerful  for  both  good 
and  evil;  and  it  should  then  be  held  by  the  public  to  the 
same  moral  responsibility  to  do  good  rather  than  evil,  which 
the  common  conscience  of  mankind  imposes  upon  the  indi- 
vidual. The  trust,  moreover,  is  a  legitimate  source  of  public 
revenue  and  should  be  subjected  to  a  just  taxation.  My 
effort  in  this  paper  has  merely  been  to  show  that,  if  the  trust 
conducts  its  affairs  within  the  limits  of  morality,  law,  and 
public  policy,  it  cannot  long  inflict  serious  injury  on  the  com- 
munity in  consequence  of  its  strictly  economic  functions. 


VIII 
THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE  STATE 


VIII 
THE  RAILROADS   AND   THE   STATE 

In  the  United  States  the  relation  of  the  railroad  to  the 
government  has  assumed,  at  some  time  and  place,  every 
possible  form,  from  an  uncontrolled  private  ownership  ta 
ownership  and  management  by  the  state  itself.  The  views 
of  economists,  legislators,  and  business  men  as  to  the  best 
solution  of  the  problems  presented  by  the  conflicting  interests 
of  stock  and  bond  holders,  directors,  shippers,  and  the  public 
at  large  have  a  correspondingly  wide  range.  The  present 
drift  of  both  events  and  thought  is  strongly  toward  a  ju- 
ridical and  administrative  compromise,  of  a  kind  that  is  in 
perfect  keeping  with  the  historical  characteristics  of  Ameri- 
can political  development.  However  European  nations  may 
solve  such  problems,  we  shall  solve  them  ourselves  in  a  way 
of  our  own. 

The  conditions  that  have  given  rise  to  these  problems  have 
so  often  been  described  in  recent  years  that  it  is  unnecessary 
to  rehearse  them  in  any  detail.  Railroad  mileage  and  traffic 
have  grown  with  a  rapidity  that  have  made  all  conditions  of 
cost  and  value  unstable,  and  all  methods  of  management 
experimental.  The  expectation  entertained  in  the  early  days 
of  railroad  building,  that  competition  would  regulate  charges 
and  profits  as  unfailingly  and  as  simply  as  it  once  regulated 
them  in  wholesale  trade,  was  entirely  disappointed.  Com- 
petition is  found  to  be  a  vastly  more  tremendous  force  than 
could  have  been  dreamed  of,  but  it  works  with  ruinous 
irregularity  and  inequality,  reducing  service  almost  to  a 
gratuity  in  one  place,  while  failing  to  reduce  excessive 
charges  in  another  ;  at  one  time  carried  on  between  different 
lines  with  reckless  fury,  at  another  time   giving   place  to 

147 


148  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

combination  and  pooling.  The  opportunities  for  directors 
to  make  great  fortunes  at  the  expense  of  investors  have 
been  almost  unlimited,  and  they  have  been  diligently 
improved.  Individual  and  local  discriminations  for  a  long 
time  were  carried  so  far  that  at  last  they  exhausted  the 
patience  of  a  people  which,  on  the  whole,  submits  to  imposi- 
tion more  good-naturedly  than  any  other  in  the  world. 

Shall  these  evils  be  left  to  correct  themselves  if  they  will, 
or  shall  the  state  attempt  to  correct  them,  and  if  so  how? 
The  first  of  these  questions  has  been  answered  for  at  least 
the  time  being.  Faith  in  a  self-correcting  virtue  has  died 
out.  State  action  has  begun,  and  its  continuance  is  in- 
evitable. There  are  two  forms  that  it  can  take,  namely, 
state  ownership  and  state  regulation.  In  regard  to  each,  we 
may  raise  questions  of  moral  right,  of  expediency,  and  of 
probability.  The  question  of  legal  right  is  a  question  solely 
of  the  sovereign  will  of  the  people,  which  makes  legal  rights 
and  destroys  them,  but  which  is  itself  always  profoundly 
influenced  by  considerations  of  moral  right. 

The  question  of  moral  right  is,  therefore,  fundamental.  Is 
the  right  to  make  money  by  means  of  certain  opportunities 
conferred  by  the  state,  one  which  the  state  has  no  moral 
right  to  recover?  Are  the  values  of  railroad  property  so 
entirely  a  creation  of  private  effort  that  the  state  may  not 
interfere  in  their  administration? 

The  right  of  the  state  to  take  possession  of  the  railroads 
by  honourable  purchase  at  a  just  valuation,  is  never 
questioned  except  among  the  few  who  deny  that  there 
is  a  moral  basis  for  governmental  functions  beyond  the 
preservation  of  order  and  the  enforcement  of  contracts,  and 
by  the  still  fewer  who  deny  the  validity  of  any  governmental 
action  whatsoever.  Those  who  hold  that  government  is  justi- 
fied by  necessity,  if  not,  indeed,  as  Aristotle  taught,  as  a 
means  to  the  moral  development  of  man,  will  not  claim  that 
any  particular  class  of  citizens  has  an  irrevocable  right, 
against  society  as  a  whole,  to  such  opportunities  for  money 
making  as  railroad  transportation  affords.  The  opportunities 
were  conferred  by  the  state  ;  the  state,  by  an  honourable  bar- 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE   STATE  149 

gain,  may  recover  them,  and  it  may  then  refuse  to  reconfer 
them. 

The  right  of  the  state  to  impose  conditions  on  private  rail- 
road property  and  to  regulate  its  management  is  more  difficult 
to  state  clearly  and  simply,  but  it  is  no  less  certain.  Of  no 
railroad  whatever  has  the  value  been  created  by  private  effort 
alone.  The  very  first  factor  in  the  creation  of  railroad  wealth 
is  contributed  by  the  state.  Nothing  can  be  done  toward  the 
construction  of  a  line  until  right  of  way  is  secured,  and  it  is 
doubtful  if  right  of  way  through  ten  miles  of  country  farms, 
to  say  nothing  about  city  building  lots,  could  be  obtained 
without  an  exercise  by  the  state  of  its  right  of  eminent  do- 
main, whereby  land  is  condemned  to  the  proposed  use,  and 
the  owners  are  obliged  to  accept  a  compensation  fixed  by 
judicial  process.  And  this  is  not  all.  It  has  become  a  pos- 
sibility for  one  man  to  own  a  whole  railroad  system,  but  no 
one  man  could  have  built  a  railroad  system  in  the  first  in- 
stance, and  no  number  of  men  in  the  early  days  of  railroading 
would  have  risked  their  capital  in  a  railroad  system  under 
the  law  of  ordinary  partnership,  which  makes  each  partner 
individually  liable  for  the  total  obligations  of  the  enterprise. 
Another  form  of  organization  was  necessary,  which  should 
have  special  legal  powers  and  privileges,  and  in  which  an 
individual's  liability  should  be  limited  in  some  proportion 
to  his  investment.  That  form  was  found  in  the  joint  stock 
corporation,  an  artificial  legal  person,  created  by  the  state 
for  no  other  reason  whatever  than  the  expectation  that  it 
would  promote  the  public  welfare,  and  over  which,  there- 
fore, the  state  has  at  least  as  much  moral  right  of  control, 
to  any  extent  necessary  to  insure  the  public  welfare,  as  it  has 
over  natural  persons.  And  this  moral  right  has  abundant 
expression  in  legal  right. 

Aside  from  special  constitutional  and  statutory  provisions 
in  each  commonwealth  for  the  government  of  corporations, 
there  is  a  body  of  common  law  of  fundamental  importance 
defining  the  rights  and  obligations  of  common  carriers,  which 
the  courts  are  expected  to  enforce,  and  in  full  knowledge  of 
which  railroad  enterprises  are  undertaken.     These  laws  are 


150  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

the  substantial  basis  of  an  indefinite  control  that  may  be  ex- 
ercised by  each  state  within  its  own  boundaries. 

That  wider  control,  which  only  the  nation  can  exercise, 
is  vested  in  the  Federal  Government  by  the  constitutional 
provision  expressly  conferring  upon  Congress  the  power  to 
regulate  commerce  between  the  states. 

The  question  of  the  comparative  expediency  of  state  own- 
ership of  railroads  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  governmental 
regulation  on  the  other  hand,  opens  up  considerations  so 
many  and  so  involved  that  volumes  would  be  necessary  for 
any  thorough  discussion  of  them.  In  an  article  like  this  it 
is  possible  only  to  point  out  a  few  of  the  more  important 
conditions  on  which  the  answer  turns. 

It  is  held  by  many  economists  that  a  business  which  is  by 
its  nature  a  monopoly  is  properly  a  function  of  government, 
while  business  that  is  self-regulated  by  competition  is  properly 
a  function  of  individuals. 

Any  business  tends  to  become  a  monopoly  when  consoli- 
dation of  plant  and  management  secures  such  important 
economies  that  the  public  can  be  better  served  by  one  con- 
cern than  by  two  or  more.  That  this  is  true  of  railroads,  few 
well-informed  persons  any  longer  doubt,  and  not  many  com- 
petent students  any  longer  deny  that  business  of  tliis  nature 
either  should  be  owned  by  the  public  or  should  be  subjected 
to  administrative  regulation  by  the  government.  Public 
opinion  has  rapidly  settled  toward  this  conclusion,  but  there 
is  still  a  wide  divergence  as  to  whether  public  regulation 
or  public  ownership  is  the  wiser  plan.  Thus,  for  example, 
while  many  cities  are  experimenting  with  municipal  owner- 
ship of  gas  and  electric  lighting  plants,  Massachusetts  has 
placed  all  her  gas  and  electric  lighting  companies  under 
regulation  by  a  commission. 

Public  ownership  involves  great  difficulties  and  some  dan- 
gers that  cannot  be  ignored.  For  one  thing,  we  cannot  be 
sure  that  it  will  stop  with  those  businesses  that  have  the 
monopolistic  character  now.  The  growth  of  trusts  suggests 
the  possibility,  at  least,  that  the  production  of  nearly  all  the 
great  staples  of  commerce  may  drift  under  centralized  man- 


THE  RAILROADS  AND  THE   STATE  151 

agement.  But  even  if  this  does  not  happen,  the  objections  to 
public  ownership  and  management,  of  even  a  comparatively 
few  great  business  undertakings,  are  serious,  from  an  eco- 
nomic no  less  than  from  a  political  standpoint. 

President  Hadley  has  summarized  the  economic  objections 
in  his  proposition  that  it  seems  to  be  difficult  for  a  govern- 
ment to  manage  a  great  business  interest  so  as  to  combine 
economy  with  a  progressive  policy.  There  are  examples  of 
careful  economy  with  low  prices  of  service,  as  in  the  state 
railroads  of  Germany,  but  the  service  in  these  cases  is  inferior 
to  that  offered  by  private  corporations  in  the  United 
States.  The  usual  superiority  of  private  management  in 
this  matter  becomes  conspicuous  in  great  emergencies.  The 
energy  displayed  by  the  Pennsylvania  railroad,  in  reestab- 
lishing its  through  traffic  after  the  Johnstown  flood,  was 
something  not  to  be  expected  of  any  governmental  business 
management  that  we  are  acquainted  with  at  present.  On  the 
other  hand,  governments  may  give,  on  the  whole,  better  ser- 
vice than  private  companies,  but  at  the  expense  of  taxpayers. 
It  is  possible  that  state  administrations  will  yet  solve  the 
problem  of  uniting  economy  with  enterprise  more  success- 
fully than  private  management  can  do  it.  If  it  does,  one 
great  objection  to  state  ownership  of  railroads  will  disappear. 

We  need  not  dwell  on  the  political  difficulties  involved  in 
an  enormous  extension  of  the  civil  service  and  in  the  tempta- 
tion to  conduct  a  public  business  that  touches  vitally  every 
locality  and  almost  every  individual  in  such  a  way  as  to  in- 
fluence elections.  But  there  is  one  difficulty  which  is  so 
peculiarly  an  American  difficulty,  and  which  is,  neverthe- 
less, so  often  left  out  of  consideration,  that  it  calls  for  ex- 
plicit statement. 

As  a  people  we  are  deficient  in  certain  characteristics  and 
habits  that  would  seem  to  be  essential  to  a  successful  govern- 
mental management  of  railroads.  We  have  not  been  used 
for  generations  to  having  governments  do  many  things  for  us, 
least  of  all  to  manage  great  industrial  enterprises  for  us. 
The  popular  thinking  has  not  been  trained  into  a  form  to 
enable  it  to  guide  wisely,  to  criticise  judiciously,  an  admin- 


152  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

istration  undertaking  such  functions.  We  have  a  belief  —  be 
it  true  or  false,  still  a  firm  conviction  —  that  the  American  is 
peculiarly  qualified  to  manage  gi-eat  undertakings  by  private 
enterprise,  and  a  popular  willingness  to  look  on  at  this  sort 
of  management,  wonder  at  it,  and  see  what  will  come  of  it. 

It  is,  indeed,  no  more  true  of  us  than  of  other  nations,  that 
all  industrial  undertakings  can  be  better  carried  on  by  indi- 
viduals than  by  governments.  But  just  what  undertakings 
will  be  better  handled  by  government,  and  what  by  individ- 
uals, is  peculiarly  one  of  those  matters  that  will  always  be 
determined  for  each  state  or  nation  largely  by  its  own  char- 
acter, habits,  and  traditions.  In  this  country  the  competition 
of  waterways  has  hitherto  been  a  chief  factor  in  determining 
railroad  tariffs ;  and  it  happens  that  through  various  causes, 
some  of  them  historical,  the  development  of  inland  naviga- 
tion has  never  enlisted  the  earnest  effort  of  private  capital ; 
it  has  always  been  a  matter  for  governmental  administration, 
and  in  all  probability  it  always  will  be.  In  the  case  of 
railroads,  on  the  contrary,  Americans  have  manifested  a 
remarkable  genius  for  private  administration,  and  none  at 
all  for  governmental  management.  We  should  seriously 
consider  whether  this  is  not  the  real  secret  of  the  failure 
successfully  to  manage  so  important  a  property  as  the 
Hoosac  tunnel  and  its  connecting  railroad  by  a  state  like 
Massachusetts,  which  has  done  more  than  any  other  state  in 
the  Union,  by  means  of  various  administrative  commissions, 
to  hold  corporations  of  all  kinds  to  their  public  responsibili- 
ties. To  one  who  watched  the  history  of  that  enterprise 
year  by  year  until  the  tunnel  and  the  state  road  were  sold 
to  a  corporation,  it  seems  absolutely  certain  that  the  failure 
of  state  management,  whether  inevitable  or  not  on  account 
of  any  inherent  difficulty  in  state  management  of  railroad 
property,  was  at  any  rate  inevitable,  as  requiring  a  kind  of 
skill  that  the  people  of  the  state  in  their  civic  capacity  did 
not  possess,  and  as  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  their  politics. 

If  we  were  Frenchmen  or  Germans  or  Russians,  and  had 
ingrained  in  our  mental  constitutions  the  traditions  and  apti- 
tudes of  centuries  of  French  or  German  or  Russian  govern- 


THE  RAILROADS  AND   THE   STATE  153 

ment,  perhaps  we  might  expect  to  succeed  in  doing  some 
things  which  Europe  does,  if  not  well,  at  least  not  altogether 
ill.  But  the  major  premise  fails,  and  to  assume  that  we  shall 
revolutionize  our  political  aptitudes  and  ways  of  thought,  is 
to  beg  the  whole  of  a  large  question. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  the  question  of  expediency  is  one 
not  at  all  likely  to  be  answered  a  priori  or  conformably  to  any 
preconceived  theory.  It  will  be  answered  only  after  much 
experience,  only  by  much  experiment,  only  through  a  great 
multitude  of  tentative  rules  and  decisions.  And  this  brings 
us  directly  to  the  question  of  the  probabilities  in  our  own 
country :  Are  the  chances  in  favor  of  a  return  to  laissez-faire, 
of  a  movement  toward  state  ownership,  or  of  a  growing  ad- 
ministrative and  judicial  regulation  ? 

The  one  thing  reasonably  certain  is  that,  either  by  regula- 
tion or  by  state  ownership,  the  state  will  play  an  increasing 
part  in  railroad  affairs.  There  will  be  no  return  to  the  wholly 
unregulated  private  management  of  former  years.  But  what 
form  of  control  will  finally  be  adopted  no  one  can  predict  with 
certainty.  If  the  present  form  of  regulation  by  commission 
proves  effective,  it  may  be  continued  indefinitely.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  it  is  unsuccessful,  if  the  railroads  prove  able  to 
defy  regulation  or  to  control  the  government's  policy,  the 
populist  feeling  may  easily  become  strong  enough  and  wide- 
spread enough  to  bring  the  railroads  under  state  ownership. 

Even  if  regulation  by  commission  proves  effective,  political 
or  military  exigency  may  transfer  ownership  to  the  uation. 
It  was  for  political  and  military  reasons  chiefly  that  the  post- 
office  was  made  a  government  monopoly;  and  for  like  reasons 
the  telegraph  may  at  any  time  follow.  Should  the  imperial 
government  of  Great  Britain  or  the  Dominion  government  of 
Canada  take  possession  of  the  Canadian  Pacific  Railroad,  it  is 
not  at  all  improbable  that  the  United  States  would  take  pos- 
session of  the  Pacific  railroads  of  this  country.  On  the  con- 
trary, if  the  railroads  should  one  day  become  public  property, 
political  exigency  might  at  any  time  compel  the  government 
to  sell  them,  as  Austria  sold  hers  on  account  of  her  financial 
straits  subsequent  to  1849.    Still  again,  it  might  happen  that 


154  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

government  ownership  would  be  so  debased  to  partisan  ends 
that  the  people  would  go  back  to  the  system  of  ownership  by 
corporations. 

In  the  absence  of  any  of  these  causes  of  revolutionary 
change  the  probabilities  are  against  state  ownership.  The 
experiment  of  entrusting  elaborate  industrial  functions  to  a 
democratic  government  is  one  never  yet  made  on  a  great 
scale,  and  to  a  majority  of  voters  it  will  probably  seem  wiser 
not  to  enter  upon  a  policy  that  all  their  habits  of  thought 
and  all  the  traditions  of  our  political  life  conspire  to  make 
them  regard  as  radical.  One  has  only  to  look  into  the  growth 
of  common  law  to  get  a  sense  of  the  instinctive  obedience  of 
the  English  and  American  people  to  the  principle  of  con- 
tinuity. We  do,  indeed,  make  changes  by  revolutionary  pro- 
ceedings sometimes,  but  never  when  we  can  avoid  it.  Rather 
by  tentative  modifications,  by  patiently  feeling  our  way,  we 
develop  the  new  from  the  old.  It  is,  therefore,  altogether 
probable  that  in  the  United  States  the  relations  of  the  rail- 
ways to  the  state,  for  a  long  time  to  come,  will  be  developed 
along  lines  already  existing.  The  railroad  corporations  will 
probably  continue  to  be  semi-private,  semi-public  bodies;  and 
by  the  further  development  of  administration  through  com- 
missions with  discretionary  powers,  and  through  the  further 
growth  of  a  body  of  pertinent  judicial  decisions,  the  satisfac- 
tory discharge  of  their  public  obligations  will  be  more  and 
more  nearly  secured. 

The  discretionary  powers  are  necessary  because  experience 
has  shown  that  preconceived  theories  of  what  regulation  is 
feasible  and  what  is  not  are  extremely  liable  to  be  wrong. 

The  theories  of  shippers  and  of  the  travelling  public,  em- 
bodied in  legislation,  repeatedly  have  been  found  impractica- 
ble or  worse,  as  in  the  granger  legislation  of  1870-77;  and 
the  theories  of  railroad  managers  have  been  wrong  as  often 
as  have  been  those  of  the  public. 

The  case  of  the  car  stove  illustrates  the  fallibility  of  the 
railroad  man's  judgment.  Public  opinion  insisted  that  the 
car  stove  should  go.  Railroad  managers,  with  one  voice, 
replied  that  the  car  stove  could  not  go,  that  no  other  means 


THE   RAILROADS  AND  THE   STATE  155 

of  heating  was  practicable.  But  New  York  and  one  or  two 
other  states  declared  that  nevertheless  the  stove  should  go ; 
and  then  the  better  roads  quickly  discovered  substitutes  that 
at  once  were  found  so  superior  that  managers  would  as  soon 
have  returned  to  link  and  pin  couplings  as  to  stove  heating. 
It  is  because  of  this  extreme  liability  of  all  the  parties  in 
interest  to  make  costly  mistakes  of  judgment,  and  the 
consequent  impossibility  of  enforcing  very  many  hard  and 
fast  rules,  that  commissions  with  discretionary  powers  have 
become  of  so  much  importance. 

State  commissions  of  a  workable  type  began  with  the  crea- 
tion of  the  Massachusetts  Commission  in  1869.  The  Federal 
Interstate  Commerce  Commission  was  not  created  until  1887. 
The  state  commissions  and  the  national  commission  deal  to 
some  extent  with  the  same  problems,  but  to  a  greater  extent 
they  are  concerned  with  different  problems,  and,  as  time 
goes  on,  their  functions  will  undoubtedly  become  more  and 
more  specialized.  They  all  undertake  to  enforce  publicity 
in  railroad  matters  as  far  as  public  welfare  demands  it,  and 
this  is  more  and  more  clearly  seen  to  be  one  of  the  feasible 
forms  of  railroad  regulation,  and  one  of  fundamental  impor- 
tance. Mere  publicity  itself  corrects  some  of  the  worst 
abuses  to  which  railroad  management  is  liable.  To  the 
state  commissions  properly  belongs  the  immensely  impor- 
tant function  of  deciding  whether  or  not  public  necessity 
or  convenience  requires  the  construction  of  a  proposed  new 
road.  The  Massachusetts  Commission  has  for  some  time 
had  this  power.  Had  it  been  possessed  and  fearlessly  exer- 
cised in  other  states  thirty  years  ago,  an  enormous  amount  of 
loss  and  corruption  would  have  been  prevented.  Many  more 
special  but  not  unimportant  matters  are  within  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  state  commissions.  Among  these  are  local  train  ser- 
vice, train  connections,  the  location  of  stations  and  highway 
crossings.  The  experience  of  Massachusetts  has  shown  that 
in  regard  to  all  these  things  an  able  and  upright  commission 
is  powerful  to  protect  the  public  interest. 

The  greater  problems  of   rates,  freight  classification,  and 
discrimination  come  by  force  of  law  and  circumstances  more 


156  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

and  more  before  the  Federal  Commission.  Short  as  its  his- 
tory has  been,  this  commission  already  has  created  and  en- 
forced a  remarkable  body  of  railroad  law,  and  the  limits  of 
governmental  regulation  are  beginning  to  be  defined.  The 
prohibition  of  pooling  was  of  very  doubtful  expediency, 
and  it  is  evident  that  the  principle  of  equality  of  service 
cannot  be  construed  to  mean  that  tariffs  must  be  propor- 
tionate to  cost  of  service.  High  class  freight  must  be  made 
to  contribute  more  toward  the  fixed  charges  of  a  railroad 
than  bulky  freight  can  be  made  to  pay,  even  though  it  costs 
the  road  more  to  move  the  latter  than  to  move  the  former. 
But  charging  more  for  a  short  than  for  a  long  haul  and  the 
worst  forms  of  discrimination  have  to  an  increasing  extent 
been  prevented. 

Therefore,  we  have  every  reason  to  expect  that,  without 
any  revolutionary  change,  the  relations  of  the  railroad  to  the 
state  will  be  brought  into  increasingly  harmonious  adjust- 
ment. This  becomes  the  more  probable  when  we  reflect 
that,  while  the  present  evils  of  railroad  management  could 
not  be  expected  to  correct  themselves,  many  of  them  must 
disappeaft"  with  the  causes  that  gave  rise  to  them.  Evils  due 
to  a  marvellously  rapid  growth  of  mileage  and  transportation, 
to  an  exaggerated  estimate  of  a  new  thing,  to  a  great  uncer- 
tainty as  to  the  future  values  of  stocks,  and  to  instability  of 
policy,  are  evils  that  can  no  longer  exist  when  the  great  trunk 
lines  and  tens  of  thousands  of  miles  of  feeders  have  been 
definitely  established  once  for  all ;  when  the  volume  and 
course  of  traffic  can  be  anticipated  from  year  to  year  with  a 
fair  degree  of  certainty ;  when  values  have  become  relatively 
stable,  and  an  equilibrium  has  been  established  between  bonds 
and  stocks,  and  when  policy  has  become  much  less  a  matter 
of  experiment,  much  more  a  matter  of  tradition,  than  it  is  at 
present. 


IX 
PUBLIC  REVENUE  AND  CIVIC  VIRTUE 


IX 

PUBLIC  REVENUE  AND   CIVIC  VIRTUE 

The  maxim  that  a  direct  tax  should  be  apportioned  among 
taxpayers  in  proportion  to  their  property  or  to  their  incomes,  is 
wholly  undemocratic.  It  is  a  relic  of  feudal  days,  when  men 
served  their  overlord  in  proportion  to  benefits  conferred,  or 
paid  for  protection  in  proportion  to  the  protection  given. 

Not  less  undemocratic  is  indirect  taxation,  in  all  its  tortu- 
ous and  vicious  forms.  It  is  a  survival  of  the  age  of  eman- 
cipation, when  the  labourer,  no  longer  compelled  as  a  serf  to 
do  task  work  for  the  owners  of  the  land,  was  practically  com- 
pelled to  pay  for  his  freedom  in  proportion  to  his  utilization 
and  enjoyment  of  it,  that  is  to  say,  in  proportion  to  his 
consumption. 

In  a  perfect  democracy  there  could  be  no  indirect  taxation, 
—  which  conceals  or  misrepresents  every  relation  of  the 
citizen  to  the  government,  and  bemuddles  his  mind  on  every 
public  question  —  and  there  could  be  no  inequalities  of 
direct  taxation.  In  a  perfect  democracy  every  citizen,  having 
an  equal  voice  with  every  other  citizen  in  all  public  affairs, 
would  also  pay  the  same  tax  as  every  other  and  would  pay  it 
directly,  knowing  exactly  how  much  he  was  paying  and  why. 
The  only  examples  of  a  perfect  democracy  are  found  in  or- 
ganizations like  clubs  or  trade-unions,  in  which  all  members 
enjoy  precisely  the  same  privileges,  and  pay  therefor  exactly 
equal  assessments. 

It  is  perfectly  consistent  with  these  truths  that  indirect 
taxation  and  great  inequalities  of  direct  taxation  have  always 
been  regarded  by  sober  thinkers  as  detrimental  to  civic 
virtue.  Of  all  forms  of  government  or  of  the  state,  democracy 
is  that  one  which  is  most  closely  bound  up  with  an  enlight- 

159 


160  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ened  and  virile  morality.  The  perfect  ideals  of  democracy 
can  be  grasped  only  by  enlightened  and  sensitively  conscien- 
tious men,  and  their  approximate  realization  is  possible  only  to 
an  instructed  and  virtuous  people.  Indirect  taxation  destroys 
moral  responsibility  by  concealing  the  relations  of  cause  and 
effect  in  public  affairs,  and  by  tempting  enterprising  men  to 
enrich  themselves  at  the  expense  of  the  ignorant,  through  a 
perversion  of  law  and  administration  to  private  ends.  In- 
equalities of  direct  taxation  destroy  the  sense  of  right  and 
wrong  in  public  matters  by  tempting  the  poor  to  vote  large 
appropriations  at  the  expense  of  the  rich,  —  often  ignorantly, 
regardless  of  necessity  or  of  fitness,  and  without  check  upon 
the  methods  of  expenditure. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  these  abuses  is  on  the  whole 
more  destructive  of  civic  virtue.  The  inequalities  of  direct 
taxation  alike  in  great  cities  and  in  rural  towns  have  for 
many  generations  been  the  prolific  cause  of  waste,  wanton 
extravagance,  and  accumulating  indebtedness.  Indirect 
taxation  has  begotten  in  the  nation  the  policy  of  protec- 
tionism and  its  ill-visaged  brood  of  briberies,  log  rollings,  and 
legislative  deals.  On  the  whole,  protectionism  has  probably 
been  in  our  own  country  the  more  insidious  and  dangerous 
foe  of  public  morality.  Able  men  have  differed  and  doubt- 
less will  long  continue  to  differ  about  the  economic  value  of 
a  protective  tariff;  but  in  recent  years  not  many  self- 
respecting  men  have  had  the  hardihood  to  deny  that,  in  the 
actual  tariff  policy  of  the  United  States  —  taking  into  ac- 
count not  only  administration  and  legislation,  but  also  the 
means  by  which  these  have  been  shaped  —  any  industrial 
advantage  that  we  may  have  secured  has  been  purchased  at 
a  heavy  sacrifice  of  straightforward  conduct,  of  that  stern 
adherence  to  common  honesty  upon  which  the  prosperity  of 
nations,  as  of  individuals,  must  ultimately  rest.  In  the 
nature  of  the  facts,  these  injuries  to  civic  morality  have 
been  inevitable.  Protectionism  imposes  taxes  not  only  for 
purposes  of  public  revenue,  but  also  and  avowedly  to  create 
profits  or  wages  in  particular  industries.  When  a  man  can 
make  himself  believe  that  this  is  morally  legitimate  —  when 


PUBLIC  REVENUE  AND  CIVIC  VIRTUE  161 

he  can  persuade  Mmself  that  it  is  morally  right  to  increase 
his  own  profits,  or  even  to  raise  the  wages  of  his  employees 
at  the  expense  of  other  men  who  protest  that  they  are  in 
no  way  benefited  —  he  can  hardly  remain  sensitive  to  the 
methods  by  which  the  discriminating  tax  is  imposed,  or  by 
which  its  favours  are  apportioned. 

It  is  because  these  moral  aspects  of  a  financial  system  are 
really  of  supreme  importance  that  the  American  people 
should  ever  hold  in  grateful  memory  the  name  of  Henry 
George.  By  proposing  a  confiscation  of  land  values  which 
clear-headed  men  in  general  have  pronounced  dishonest, 
while  himself  denouncing  the  dishonesty  of  a  protective 
tariff,  Mr,  George  compelled  his  fellow-men  to  give  a  measure 
of  attention  to  the  moral,  not  less  than  to  the  economic, 
aspects  of  their  revenue  systems.  Happily  there  are  no  signs 
that  this  attention  will  cease.  The  popular  discussion  of  the 
ethics  of  taxation  has  now  been  carried  on  with  great  earnest- 
ness for  more  than  twenty  years,  and  among  its  results  have 
been,  not  only  an  increase  of  knowledge,  but  also  a  quickening 
of  the  moral  sense. 

There  are  three  possible  ways  of  making  the  revenue 
system  of  a  state  conform  approximately  to  democratic 
standards. 

The  first  is  to  raise  all  public  revenue  by  means  of  a  poll 
tax.  The  poll  tax  is  a  direct  assessment  of  citizens  and 
conforms  to  the  democratic  requirement  of  equality,  exactly 
as  does  the  impartial  assessment  of  club  or  trade-union 
members.  The  poll  tax,  however,  has  never  been  popular, 
and  instead  of  displacing  other  taxes  it  has  nearly  disap- 
peared from  our  financial  resources. 

A  second  way  to  accomplish  the  same  result  would  be  to 
derive  all  public  revenue  from  the  public  ownership  of  lands, 
mines,  waterways,  railroads,  and  other  productive  enterprises, 
and  to  distribute  any  surplus  over  the  necessary  expenses  of 
government  in  equal  dividends  to  all  citizens,  exactly  as  a 
corporation  would  distribute  its  earnings  in  excess  of  ex- 
penses in  equal  dividends  to  its  stockholders  if  all  held  equal 
amounts  of  stock.     Under  such  a  system  the  citizen  might 


162  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

now  and  then  receive,  not  his  anticipated  quarterly  dividend, 
but  an  assessment — a  tax  bill  —  and  in  his  wrath  he  might 
demand  an  investigation  of  the  administration.  Such  a 
system  therefore  might  create  in  the  great  body  of  voters  a 
keener  interest  in  the  functions  and  methods  of  government 
than  is  felt  at  present.  Possibly  there  would  be  fewer 
extravagant  appropriations  and  fewer  mistakes  of  adminis- 
tration. Such  a  system,  however,  would  approach  too  near 
to  state  socialism  to  be  seriously  entertained  by  the  American 
mind. 

The  third  way  to  make  the  revenue  system  approximately 
democratic  would  be  to  obtain  the  major  part  of  the  state's 
income  from  public  property  and  from  franchises,  and  a  minor 
part,  fluctuating  in  amount,  from  excise  taxes.  Inasmuch 
as  all  citizens  are  equal  owners  of  an  undivided  public  prop- 
erty, and  equal  sharers  in  all  public  rights,  a  revenue  de- 
rived from  public  property  and  from  franchises  must  be 
regarded  as  equivalent  to  a  tax  equally  imposed  upon  all 
citizens.  An  excise  tax  could  be  laid  upon  a  few  selected 
articles  in  such  wise  that  it  would  fall  with  approximate 
equality  upon  adult  persons.  Moreover,  an  excise  tax  fluc- 
tuating in  amount  would,  in  a  measure,  serve  to  keep  the 
attention  of  voters  fixed  upon  the  policy  and  conduct  of  their 
government,  and  thus  would  keep  alive  the  sense  of  civic 
responsibility.  Far  better,  however,  would  be  the  moral 
results  if  the  marginal  revenue  could  be  raised  by  a  fluctuat- 
ing poll  tax,  and  if  the  bill  therefor,  sent  to  every  voter  could 
invariably  be  accompanied  by  an  itemized  statement  of  all 
governmental  receipts  and  expenditures. 

All  these  schemes,  however,  are  at  best  nothing  more  than 
ideals ;  perhaps  they  are  merely  visions.  Our  nation  and 
our  commonwealths  —  as  yet  far  from  perfectly  democratic  in 
organization  and  policy  —  will  long  continue  to  struggle  with 
their  crude,  uneconomical,  and  immoral  systems  of  taxation, 
trying  little  by  little  to  improve  them,  and  to  make  the  best 
of  what  cannot  at  present  be  mended.  By  keeping  the 
moral  as  well  as  the  economic  issues  continually  in  the  public 
mind,  important  reforms  can  be  achieved  from  time  to  time. 


PUBLIC  REVENUE  AND  CIVIC  VIRTUE  16S 

Through  the  decay  of  protectionism,  and  through  the  grad- 
ual substitution  of  franchise  taxes  and  revenues  from  public 
property  for  our  barbarous  taxes  on  personal  property,  we 
shall  make  some  approximation  to  standards  that  are  demo- 
cratic and  moral.  To  the  extent  that  we  accomplish  this  we 
shall  permit  our  now  half-strangled  civic  virtue  to  breathe 
freely  —  to  grow  and  wax  strong. 


X 

SOME  KESULTS  OF  THE  FREEDOM  OF  WOMEN 


SOME  RESULTS   OF  THE   FREEDOM   OF  WOMEN 

Among  the  results  of  the  democratic  movement  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  the  great  increase  of  the  freedom  enjoyed  hy 
women  and  the  multiplication  of  their  legal  rights  and  indus- 
trial privileges  are  in  many  quarters  regarded  as  of  much  im- 
portance for  human  well-being.  It  is  assumed  that  the  change 
has  already  affected  the  production  of  wealth,  and  predictions 
are  freely  made  that  it  will  affect  the  family  as  an  institution, 
the  increase  of  population,  and  the  manners  and  social  stand- 
ards of  the  community.  In  this  paper  I  purpose  to  touch  on 
two  only  of  these  results,  namely,  the  production  of  Avealth  as 
affected  by  the  greater  freedom  of  women  to  enter  industrial 
employments,  and  the  effect  of  these  industrial  activities  of 
women  upon  the  increase  of  population. 

According  to  the  Federal  census  of  1880,  there  were  in  the 
United  States  in  that  year  18,735,980  males  ten  years  of  age  and 
over,  of  whom  14,744,942  or  78.70  per  cent  were  engaged  in 
gainful  occupations.  In  the  same  year  the  population  in- 
cluded 18,025,627  females,  ten  or  more  years  of  age,  of  whom 
2,647,157  or  14.69  per  cent  were  engaged  in  gainful  occupa- 
tions. In  1890  the  total  male  population  ten  years  of  age  and 
over  had  increased  to  24,352,659,  of  whom  18,821,090  or  77.29 
per  cent  were  engaged  in  gainful  occupations.  The  total 
female  population  ten  j-ears  of  age  and  over  had  increased  to 
23,060,900,  of  whom  3,914,571  or  16.97  per  cent  were  engaged 
in  gainful  occupations.  It  thus  appears  that  there  was  an  in- 
crease of  2.28  per  cent  in  the  total  number  of  females  over  ten 
years  of  age  engaged  in  gainful  occupations,  and  a  falling  off  of 
a  little  over  one  per  cent  in  the  number  of  males  of  correspond- 
ing age  so  employed.     The  absolute  number  of  females  added 

167 


168  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

to  gainful  occupations  during  the  decade  was  1,267,414 ; 
while  the  absolute  number  of  males  so  added  to  the  industrial 
population  was  4,076,148. 

From  these  figures  two  rather  important  conclusions  must 
be  drawn.  The  first  is  that  the  positive  addition  to  the  wealth 
of  the  community,  in  consequence  of  the  increasing  industrial 
freedom  of  women,  is —  quite  contrary  to  a  general  belief  —  of 
comparatively  small  importance.  Not  only  is  it  not  large  when 
measured  in  absolute  numbers,  on  the  basis  of  the  face  value 
of  the  figures,  but  it  is  still  less  when  we  take  into  account 
the  probability  that,  as  the  leaders  of  organized  labour  generally 
insist,  the  competition  of  women  has  to  some  extent  dimin- 
ished the  earnings  of  men.  This  appears  from  the  figures  as 
given  above,  and  is  more  definitely  shown  in  the  eleventh 
annual  report  of  the  Commissioner  of  Labor,  published  in  1897, 
presenting  a  comparative  study  of  the  work  and  wages  of 
men,  women,  and  children.  Of  the  whole  number  of  persons 
employed  in  gainful  occupations  in  the  United  States  in  1870, 
85.32  per  cent  were  males  and  14.68  per  cent  were  females 
over  ten  years  of  age ;  while  in  1890  the  proportions  were, 
males  82.78  per  cent  and  females  17.22  per  cent. 

This  general  conclusion  is  fully  borne  out  by  a  special  re- 
port on  the  employment  of  women,  rendered  in  1894  to  the 
British  Board  of  Trade,  prepared  for  the  Labour  Department 
by  Miss  Collet.  The  main  conclusion  drawn  from  a  detailed 
statistical  presentation  of  the  employment  of  women  and  girls 
is  stated  as  follows :  "  The  current  view  that  women's  employ- 
ment is  rapidly  extending,  and  that  women  are  replacing  men 
to  a  considerable  extent  in  industry,  is  not  confirmed.  On 
the  whole,  the  proportion  of  women  who  are  returned  as  occu- 
pied remained  practically  stationary  in  the  decade  1881-91. 
The  employment  of  married  and  of  elderly  women  has,  on 
the  whole,  diminished ;  and  the  employment  in  casual  occu- 
pations has  also  declined.  There  has  been  an  increase  in  the 
employment  of  women  and  girls  under  twenty-five  which  has, 
however,  been  concurrent  with  a  similar  extension  of  the  em- 
ployment of  young  men  and  boys."  Or,  to  be  more  specific, 
the  figures  were:  In  1881,  in  every  one  hundred  women  and 


SOME  RESULTS  OF  THE   FREEDOM  OF   WOMEN         169 

girls  above  ten  years  of  age,  34.05  were  returned  as  occupied ; 
and  in  1891,  34.42  were  thus  returned  —  a  merely  fractional 
increase. 

If,  however,  the  industrial  activity  of  women  contributes 
little  to  the  annual  production  of  wealth,  it  may  nevertheless 
be  more  than  insignificant  as  a  factor  in  social  relations,  and 
in  the  general  well-being  of  the  wage-earning  classes.  A 
great  disproportion  between  the  economic  and  the  social  con- 
sequences of  female  industry  may,  indeed,  be  inferred  from 
the  irregularity  with  which  the  industry  of  women  is  dis- 
tributed among  the  various  gainful  occupations.  Thus,  in 
1890,  of  all  persons  employed  in  agriculture,  fisheries,  and 
mining,  in  the  United  States  only  7.54  per  cent  were  females 
over  ten  years  of  age,  and  this  proportion  would  have  been  yet 
more  trifling  but  for  the  large  numbers  of  negro  women  who 
work  in  the  fields  of  the  South.  In  trade  and  transportation 
the  percentage  of  females  over  ten  years  of  age  was  6.87  per 
cent,  a  gain  of  5.26  per  cent  from  1870,  due  chiefly  to  the  entry 
of  girls  as  clerks  and  saleswomen  in  the  large  department  stores 
and  business  offices.  In  domestic  and  personal  service  the  pro- 
portion of  women  and  girls  over  ten  years  of  age  was  38.24  per 
cent ;  in  professional  service  it  was  33.01  per  cent  (such  occupa- 
tions as  stenography  and  nursing  being  included  in  professional 
services) ;  and  in  manufacturing  and  mechanical  industries  it 
was  20.18  per  cent.  It  is  obvious  that  such  inequalities  of  dis- 
tribution must  result  in  unequal  effects  upon  the  wages  of  men 
in  different  occupations,  and  this  phase  of  women's  activity  it 
is  that  has  chiefly  interested  the  leaders  of  organized  labour. 

Even  more  important,  however,  may  be  another  effect  of 
unequal  distribution  if  it  be  found  that  the  occupations  which 
chiefly  absorb  the  labour  of  wage-earning  women  demand 
women  within  certain  age  classes  only.  If  such  is  indeed  the 
fact,  and  if  the  industrial  period  corresponds  to  the  first  third 
or  more  of  the  child-bearing  period,  it  may  appear  that  the 
one  really  important  consequence  of  the  increased  industrial 
activity  of  women  is  its  reaction  upon  the  reproduction  and 
upon  the  standard  of  living  of  the  wage-earning  classes.  To 
this  possibility  we  may  now  give  further  attention. 


170  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

No  theorem  was  ever  more  warmly  debated  than  was  Mal- 
thus's  proposition  that  population  tends  to  multiply  beyond  the 
limits  of  subsistence.  Yet  it  was  only  in  political  economy 
that  it  had  scientific  recognition.  To-day  its  real  magnitude 
begins  to  be  apprehended.  Besides  the  part  it  plays  in  eco- 
nomic thought,  it  underlies  the  whole  theory  of  civilization ; 
for  the  fact  itself,  that  mankind  tends  to  a  relative  over- 
multiplication,  is  related  to  human  progress  in  a  way  that 
earlier  writers  only  dimly  perceived.  In  the  discussions  of 
half  a  century  ago,  it  was  assumed  by  the  disputants  on  both 
sides  that  overpopulation  is  an  evil,  and  an  evil  only.  We 
know  now  that  it  is  only  the  overmultiplying  population  that 
makes  progress.  Wealth,  art,  learning,  and  refinement,  pre- 
suppose a  certain  density  of  population  and  active  competi- 
tion. Where  these  coexist  the  struggle  for  existence  has  been 
known  in  full  severity.  Social  sympathies  and  powers  of  ab- 
stract thought  have  not  appeared  until  men  have  had  to  stand 
by  one  another  and  have  learned  to  live  by  their  wits,  and 
these  beginnings  of  wisdom  have  come  to  birth  only  when 
numbers  have  pressed  hard  upon  subsistence,  —  not  upon  re- 
sources, not  upon  potential  subsistence,  but  upon  that  actual 
subsistence  obtained  by  the  industrial  methods  at  the  time  in 
vogue. 

Yet  the  fuller  knowledge  of  our  day  has  not  cancelled  the 
list  of  miseries  that  Malthus  enumerated.  It  has  added  new 
and  even  worse  ones.  The  struggle  that  sharpens  thought, 
that  brings  out  the  beauty  and  the  power  of  human  life  at  one 
extreme,  leaves  at  the  other  extreme  more  than  that  poverty 
which  is  the  mildest  penalty  of  failure.  It  leaves  much 
physical  and  moral  wreck.  "  They  judge  wrongly,"  says 
Dr.  Morselli,  "  who  think  that  the  evils  of  civilized  society, 
such  as  misery,  disease,  prostitution,  madness,  suicide,  are 
accidental  and  avoidable.  These  social  evils  represent  the 
inevitable  result  of  the  struggle  for  existence." 

We  must  not  too  hastily  conclude,  however,  that  every- 
thing which  makes  life  beautiful  and  worthy  to  be  enjoyed 
by  those  whom  nature  has  chosen  to  favour  must  for  all 
time  be  purchased  at  the  ruin  of  the  outcast.     Without  over- 


SOME  RESULTS  OF  THE  FREEDOM  OF  WOMEN         171 

populating  vigour  and  resulting  struggle  there  is  no  progress ; 
nevertheless,  some  mitigation  of  failure  is  possible. 

The  population  problem  is  being  studied  to-day,  not  only- 
more  comprehensively  than  it  was  in  Malthus's  time,  but  by 
better  methods  and  with  different  and  more  specific  results. 
Crude  as  social  statistics  are  in  many  respects,  they  yet  are  suf- 
ficiently exact  in  regard  to  a  few  things  to  enable  us  to  say 
positively  that  it  will  not  do  to  generalize  in  this  matter  of 
population  ratios  and  results,  irrespective  of  social  classes 
and  modes  of  life.  Birth  rates  and  death  rates  are  not  the 
same  in  country  and  in  city ;  in  the  richer  and  in  the  poorer 
classes ;  among  the  native  and  among  the  foreign  born. 
Moreover,  the  evil  and  the  good  results  of  a  tendency  to 
increase  beyond  the  existing  limits  of  subsistence  do  not 
spring  from  the  increase  of  all  classes  indifferently.  Late 
statistical  results  and  studies  in  medical  demography  go  to 
show  that  the  different  social  classes  are  in  some  measure 
different  stages  in  the  development  of  the  same  stock.  Thus, 
the  existing  working  populations  of  the  cities  have  not  de- 
scended unmixed  from  the  urban  wage  classes  of  past 
generations.  In  part  they  have  sprung  from  unsuccessful 
individuals  of  the  mercantile  and  professional  classes,  and 
in  part  from  unsuccessful  elements  in  the  agricultural  popu- 
lation of  the  country.  The  mercantile,  manufacturing,  and 
professional  men  of  the  present  day  are  largely  descended 
from  country  stock,  not  largely  from  an  urban  ancestry. 
Apparently  no  stock  not  reenforced  from  without  survives 
for  unlimited  generations  under  the  conditions  of  city  life. 
Sooner  or  later  it  runs  a  downward  course  and  disappears, 
leaving  its  place  to  fresh  energy  from  country  homes. 

The  agricultural  population,  then,  is  the  perpetual  seed 
bed  of  human  society.  An  overflow  from  the  country  builds 
and  dwells  in  cities,  and  develops  there  the  higher  forms  of 
industry  and  intellectual  life.  It  creates  civilization,  but  at 
a  heavy  cost.  The  price  of  success  in  urban  enterprise  is  a 
nervous  strain  that  only  the  strongest  and  keenest  endure. 
Of  the  defeated,  numbered  by  thousands,  those  that  are 
shattered    in    nerve    fill    up    the    insane    asylums    and    the 


172  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

morgues ;  the  wicked  seek  careers  of  vice  and  crime ;  the 
honest  drift  into  the  ranks  of  the  industrious  wages  class. 
The  well-to-do  class  of  the  cities  does  not  overmultiply.  It 
marries  late,  and  too  often  its  few  children  start  in  life  with 
impaired  vitality.  The  working  class,  on  the  other  hand, 
often  multiplies  beyond  the  demands  of  the  labour  market, 
and  the  overflow  becomes  the  great  body  of  the  unemployed. 
From  the  urban  unemployed,  reenforced  by  vicious  and  idle 
elements  from  the  country  (for  the  country  generates  not 
only  the  best,  but  in  its  neglected  solitudes  and  thriftless 
villages  some  of  the  worst  of  human  stuff),  are  spawned  forth 
the  tramps  and  the  permanently  pauperized  wretches  of  the 
lowest  slums. 

In  these  facts  we  have  a  key  to  many  of  our  social 
problems.  It  is  in  the  highest  degree  desirable  that  the 
better  part  of  the  country  population  should  be  maintained 
in  overmultiplying  vigour,  so  that,  generation  after  genera- 
tion, it  may  feed  the  cities  —  and  in  the  cities  the  great 
enterprises,  the  professions,  sciences,  and  arts  —  with  fresh 
vitality  and  power.  It  is  equally  desirable  that  the  birth 
rate  of  the  poorer  half  of  the  urban  working  population 
should  be  greatly  reduced ;  for  this  half  is  too  largely  com- 
posed of  the  doubly  unsuccessful  in  the  social  struggle,  and 
its  vitality  is  often  so  near  the  point  of  exhaustion  that  it 
falls  an  easy  victim  to  inebriety  and  every  lower  form  of 
vice.  If  social  evils  are  to  be  not  palliated,  but  in  a  measure 
prevented,  the  increase  of  the  wages  class  should  be  kept 
within  the  social  demand  for  labour. 

Are  not  all  tendencies,  however,  the  other  way  ?  Is  it  not 
the  choicest  country  stock  that  tends  to  become  sterile,  or 
to  consume  itself  in  towns,  and  does  not  the  most  hopelessly 
inefficient  portion  of  the  wages  class  exhibit  the  greatest  lack 
of  procreative  prudence  ?  Here,  again,  we  have  questions  that 
get  somewhat  different  answers  from  later  data  than  would 
have  been  given  to  them  a  generation  ago. 

In  nearly  all  the  classical  discussions  of  Malthusianism, 
the  question  is  regarded  from  the  standpoint  of  the  prudence 
or   the   imprudence  of   men.       Thus  the  Rev.  Dr.  Thomas 


SOME  RESULTS  OF  THE  FREEDOM  OF  WOMEN        173 

Chalmers  wrote  that  he  knew  of  no  "right  or  comfortable 
or  efficient  way  "  of  restraining  population  other  "  than  by  the 
establishment  of  a  habit  and  a  principle  among  the  labourers 
themselves.  If  they  will  in  general  enter  recklessly  into 
marriage,  it  is  not  possible  to  save  a  general  descent  in  their 
circumstances."  Now  as  a  matter  of  fact  birth  rates  depend 
very  little  on  the  age  at  which  men  marry,  while  they  de- 
pend directly  on  the  age  at  which  women  marry.  A  young 
woman  who  marries  at  sixteen  may  easily  enough  have  a 
dozen  children  or  more.  If  she  marries  at  twenty-seven  she 
is  not  likely  to  have  more  than  two  or  three.  This  most 
obvious  fact  in  the  whole  problem  has  received  the  least 
attention.  Economists  and  divines  have  vied  with  one  an- 
other in  preaching  prudence  to  men,  while  all  the  time  the 
rate  of  population  increase  has  actually  been  determined  by 
the  economic  position  of  women. 

John  Stuart  Mill  alone  had  some  perception  of  the  truth. 
The  desirable  result  that  population  should  bear  a  gradually 
diminishing  ratio  to  capital  and  employment  "  would  be  much 
accelerated,"  he  affirmed,  "  by  another  change  which  lies  in 
the  direct  line  of  the  best  tendencies  of  the  time,  the  opening 
of  industrial  occupations  freely  to  both  sexes  " ;  and  he  added 
more  specifically,  "  I  shall  only  indicate,  among  the  probable 
consequences  of  the  industrial  and  social  independence  of 
women,  a  great  diminution  of  the  evil  of  overpopulation." 
But  even  Mill  did  not  foresee  the  facts  quite  as  they  are. 
He  anticipated  that  great  numbers  of  self-supjDorting  women 
would  forego  marriage  altogether.  He  did  not  understand 
better  than  other  writers  of  his  day  that  the  really  important 
influences  lie  in  the  conditions  that  determine,  not  whether 
women  shall  marry  at  all,  but  at  what  age  they  shall  marry. 

Now  it  is  precisely  upon  these  conditions  that  the  industrial 
activity  of  women  is  expending  its  most  imjDortant  influence. 
The  marriage  age  of  working  women  is  being  raised  to  an 
extent  that  promises  a  real  diminution  of  social  ills.  Much 
has  been  written  about  the  probable  influence  of  the  higher 
education  of  women  upon  the  birth  rate  of  the  cultivated 
classes.     The  discussion  is  a  good  example  of  how  a  conspicu- 


174  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ous  thing  may  overshadow  a  momentous  one.  The  momen- 
tous thing  is  that,  for  every  score  of  girls  of  the  cultivated 
classes  who  receive  a  college  education,  a  thousand  girls  of 
the  working  classes  are  postponing  marriage  for  a  time  on 
account  of  the  opportunities  now  open  to  them  for  self-sup- 
port. In  order  to  live  they  are  no  longer  obliged  to  marry 
and  begin  bearing  children  as  soon  as  fathers  or  mothers  have 
ceased  to  provide  for  them.  The  burdens  of  maternity  com- 
ing only  when  they  are  ready  to  assume  them,  their  families 
can  no  longer  be  large  in  the  old-fashioned  sense  of  the  word. 

Evidence  supporting  this  conclusion  is  found  in  the  report 
of  the  United  States  Commissioner  of  Labor  on  "  Working 
Women  in  Large  Cities."  The  information  was  obtained  by 
personal  interviews  with  17,427  women,  employed  in  twenty- 
two  cities,  and  is  fairly  representative  of  many  thousand 
more.  Of  these  17,427  only  745  were  married;  1038  were 
widowed,  leaving  15,387  single.  The  average  age  was  twenty- 
two  years  and  seven  months.  More  than  75  per  cent  of 
the  whole  number  were  less  than  twenty-five  years  old,  and 
of  these  8302  were  more  than  seventeen  years  old.  This 
means  that  nearly  or  quite  one -half  of  the  working  women 
are  at  present  single  during  several  of  the  years  in  which  in 
former  generations  women  of  the  same  class  were  rearing 
children. 

To  realize  the  full  significance  of  this  delay  of  motherhood 
another  important  consideration  must  be  called  to  mind.  The 
girl  who  marries  at  sixteen  or  seventeen  (and  how  very  com- 
mon such  marriages  have  been  in  the  English-speaking  work- 
ing classes  no  reader  of  industrial  history  needs  to  be  told) 
has  enjoyed  no  opportunities  for  self-improvement.  The 
prospect  is  far  from  good  that  she  will  be  able  to  make  a 
lionie  in  which  children  will  learn  foresight  and  self-control, 
and  grow  up  with  that  strong  regard  for  the  decencies  of 
life  which  is  the  sole  guarantee  of  thrift  and  prudence.  But 
if  marriage  be  delayed  for  even  four  or  five  years,  the  wliole 
intellectual  and  moral  life  may  be  lifted  and  expanded.  An 
effective  desire  to  live  respectably  and  worthily  may  be  awak- 
ened, and  the  woman  who  has  once  known  this  desire  will 


SOME  RESULTS  OF  THE  FREEDOM  OF   WOMEN         175 

never  permit  her  children  to  sink  into  indifference  or  worse, 
without  an  effort  to  quicken  their  finer  sensibilities.  She  will 
think  twice  before  giving  her  hand  in  marriage,  and  will  de- 
mand a  reasonable  assurance  that  she  is  not  to  step  down  to 
a  lower  standard  of  living. 

Here,  then,  would  seem  to  be  a  strategic  point  in  the  attack 
on  social  evils.  To  aid  in  multiplying  the  opportunities  for 
young  women  to  earn  their  support  and  to  surround  them 
during  their  wage-earning  years  with  uplifting  and  refining 
influences,  these  plainly  seem  to  be  important  duties.  The 
multiplication  of  opportunities  has  been  brought  about  thus 
far  almost  wholly  by  the  unconscious  processes  of  economic 
evolution,  and  it  will  go  on  in  the  same  way.  All  that  con- 
scious effort  can  do  is  to  combat  the  ignorance  and  the  prej- 
udice that  hinder  or  waste.  But  in  providing  educational 
influences  and  wholesome  environments,  the  field  for  organized 
effort  and  individual  self-sacrifice  is  unlimited.  And  it  is  not 
being  neglected.  Perhaps  in  no  other  field  of  ethical  activity 
has  there  been  for  many  years  more  earnest  work  expended, 
or  any  work  that  has  been  more  richly  rewarded.  The  work- 
ing girls'  societies  have  grown  beyond  the  experimental  stage. 
They  have  become  an  influential  factor  in  the  life  of  working 
women,  affording,  by  means  of  their  meetings,  discussions,  and 
classes,  a  large  measure  of  that  education  which  teaches  the 
value  of  sanitary  surroundings,  cultivates  a  love  of  books, 
music,  and  art,  and  awakens  a  sense  of  the  moral  responsi- 
bilities underlying  social  relations.  Such  work  is  being  done 
also,  with  growing  success,  by  university  and  college  settle- 
ments, and  by  similar  organizations  under  many  names.  The 
movement  for  university  extension,  too,  may  in  time  helpfully 
touch  the  lives  of  working  women  as  well  as  of  working 
men. 

The  sober  student  of  sociology  can  be  neither  pessimist 
nor  unqualified  optimist  in  his  estimate  of  human  progress. 
What  he  sees  going  on  is  a  slow  betterment  of  conditions, 
and  a  gradual  lifting  of  the  many  no  less  than  of  the  favoured 
few.  The  improvement  is  slow,  not  only  because  it  demands 
unfailing  endeavour  and  self-sacrifice,  but  also  because  so  much 


176  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

of  the  best-intentioned  philanthropy  is  misdirected.  A  practi- 
cal service  of  sociology  is  to  reveal  points  at  which  educa- 
tional work  will  tell.  At  present  all  conclusions  seem  to 
indicate  that  if  society  would  expend  its  ameliorative  re- 
sources to  the  best  advantage,  it  should  not  neglect  to  raise 
the  standard  of  living  of  the  self-supporting  young  women  of 
the  wages  class. 


XI 

THE  NATURE  AND    CONDUCT  OF  POLITICAL 
MAJORITIES 


XI 


THE    NATURE    AND    CONDUCT    OF    POLITICAL 
MAJORITIES 

Sir  Henry  Sumner  Maine's  gloomy  forecast  of  the  future 
of  popular  governments  has  made  less  impressiom  on  contem- 
porary thought  than  any  equally  serious  study  of  political 
conditions  in  modern  times.  His  conclusion  that  "  there  is 
not  at  present  sufficient  evidence  to  warrant  the  common  be- 
lief that  these  governments  are  likely  to  be  of  indefinitely 
long  duration,"  ^  is  accepted  by  few  scholars,  even  among  the 
"  remnant "  that  would  gladly  agree  with  him  if  they  could ; 
while  to  the  Philistines  of  democracy  his  demonstration  from 
history  of  the  weakness  of  their  cause  is  but  "  the  glory  of 
their  strength."  The  incoherence  of  the  argument  is  a  little 
too  obvious,  when  we  are  warned  at  the  outset  that  a  wide 
suffrage  "would  produce  in  the  long  run  a  mischievous  form 
of  conservatism  "  ^  and  "  arrest  everything  which  has  ever 
been  associated  with  liberalism,"  ^  and  assured  in  conclusion 
that  "  the  natural  condition  of  mankind  (if  that  word  '  nat- 
ural '  is  used)  is  not  the  progressive  condition,"  the  normal 
state  of  society  being  "  a  condition  not  of  changeableness, 
but  of  unchangeableness."  *  And,  again,  from  the  fact  that  "  if 
modern  society  be  not  essentially  and  normally  changeable, 
the  attempt  to  conduct  it  safely  through  the  unusual  and 
exceptional  process  of  change  is  not  easy,  but  extremely  dif- 
ficult," ^  we  are  asked  to  conclude  that  government  by  the 
many  must  be  transitory,  though  at  the  same  time  it  is  as- 
serted that  "  there  is  no  belief  less  warranted  by  actual  expe- 
rience than  that  a  democratic  republic  is,  after  the  first  and 
in  the  long  run,  given  to  reforming  legislation."^ 

1  "Popular  Government,"  p.  53.  ^Ihid.,  p.  35.  sibid.,  p.  171. 

2Ibid.,p.  35.  <Ibid.,  p.  170.  eibjd.^p.  67. 

179 


180  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

That  popular  governments  will  be  henceforth  more  endur- 
ing, if  not  more  magnificent,  than  the  monarchies  and  aris- 
tocracies of  the  past,  is  the  more  probable  as  it  is  the  more 
common  belief.  The  belief  is  growing,  too,  that  popular 
power  will  be  less  and  less  regardful  of  constitutional  limita- 
tions, less  tolerant  of  ingenious  checks  and  balances.  Popu- 
lar power  will  be  majority  power,  or,  more  likely,  plurality 
power.  The  masses  have  long  believed  this.  To  an  increasing 
extent  the  scholars  believe  it,  though  many  of  them  regret  it. 

Regret  and  apprehension  spring  naturally  from  the  politi- 
cal ideas  transmitted  from  the  great  teachers  of  earlier  days. 
On  the  whole,  the  political  philosophy  of  successive  genera- 
tions has  held  rather  closely  to  the  middle  way  of  the  Aristo- 
telian doctrine,  and  it  has  led  us  to  expect  almost  anything  of 
popular  governments  except  undue  conservatism.  Not  reac- 
tionary thinkers  alone  have  dreaded  the  tyranny  of  political 
majorities.  It  is  especially  noticeable  that  American  writers 
of  intensely  democratic  sympathies  have  feared  the  power  of 
mere  numbers,  when  unrestrained  by  local  feeling  or  institu- 
tional life.  The  strongest  and  clearest  presentation  of  their 
view  was  made  by  Calhoun  in  his  "  Disquisition  on  Govern- 
ment," an  essay  seldom  referred  to  now,  but  better  deserving 
of  study  than  some  more  pretentious  works.  Its  argument  is 
based  on  a  distinction  between  numerical  and  concurrent 
majorities.  The  concurrent  majority  is  an  agreement  of  sev- 
eral specific  majorities,  each  representing  one  of  the  many 
diverse  interests  that  are  included  in  a  large  political  society. 
Tlie  underlying  thought,  however,  is  in  part  difi^erent  from 
that  of  Mill's  later  argument  for  minority  representation. 
Both  insist  that  it  is  neither  democratic  nor  just  to  exclude 
one  or  more  parts  of  the  community  or  one  or  more  social 
interests  from  representation  in  the  government,  as,  in  their 
belief,  government  by  mere  numerical  majority  does.  Both 
deny  that  one  class,  or  party,  or  section,  will  be  more  regai'd- 
ful  of  the  rights  and  interests  of  the  unrepresented  in  a 
democracy  than  in  an  aristocracy.  But  Calhoun  adds  that 
government  by  concurrent  majority  is  different  in  nature 
from  that  by  majority  of  numbers.     The  numerical  majority 


NATURE   AND  CONDUCT   OF  POLITICAL  MAJORITIES      181 

can  be  absolute,  it  can  rule  by  force ;  concurrent  majority 
presupposes  rational  compromise,  since  it  is  in  the  power  of 
any  interest  to  veto  the  action  of  the  others ;  and  this  is  the 
exact  meaning  of  constitutionalism. 

"  It  is  this  negative  power  —  the  power  of  preventing  or 
arresting  the  action  of  the  government,  be  it  called  by  what 
term  it  may,  —  veto,  interposition,  nullification,  check  or  bal- 
ance of  power —  which  in  fact  forms  the  constitution.  They 
are  all  but  different  names  for  the  negative  power.  In  all  its 
forms  and  under  all  its  names  it  results  from  the  concurrent 
majority.  Without  this  there  can  be  no  negative,  and  with- 
out a  negative  no  constitution.  The  assertion  is  true  in  ref- 
erence to  all  constitutional  governments,  be  their  forms  what 
they  may.  It  is,  indeed,  the  negative  power  which  makes  the 
constitution,  and  the  positive  which  makes  the  government. 
The  one  is  the  power  of  acting,  and  the  other  the  power  of 
preventing  or  arresting  action.  The  two,  combined,  make 
constitutional  governments."  ^ 

We  have  before  us  now  two  very  different  beliefs  about 
political  majorities :  one  traditional  and  familiar,  that  they 
require  restraint ;  the  other  —  a  very  recent  one,  drawn  from 
highly  special  historical  studies  —  that  their  inertia  will  de- 
stroy popular  governments  by  preventing  progress.^  My  first 
purpose  is  to  call  attention  to  the  assumptions  on  which  these 
two  beliefs  rest.  They  both  assume  that  political  majorities 
have  a  nature  that  can  be  known,  and  that,  acting  according 
to  their  nature,  their  conduct  will  follow  courses  that  can  be 
predicted.  But  this  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that  the 
action  of  political  majorities  in  the  great  work  of  legislation 
and  administration  is  itself  subject  to  some  form  of  natural 
law,  and  that  under  normal  conditions  it  will  not  overstep 

1  Works  of  John  C.  Calhoun,  vol.  i,  pp.  35,  36. 

2  If  any  reader  thinks  that  I  have  misrepresented  Maine,  whose  pages 
contain  numerous  admissions  that  the  immediate  and  transient  action  of 
democracy  may  be  radical,  I  reply  that  these  admissions  as  they  stand  are 
inconsistent  with  the  chief  thought.  The  two  are  nowhere  reconciled  and 
coordinated.  Maine  had  dwelt  so  long  on  the  psychology  of  Eastern  and 
ancient  communities  that  he  had  become  incapable  of  understanding  the 
psychology  of  modern  democracy. 


182  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

certain  bounds,  whether  artificial  limits  are  imposed  or  not. 
If  all  this  is  true,  the  great  task  of  political  science  for  the 
future  will  be  to  discover  what  the  inherent  tendencies  and 
self-imposed  bounds  of  popular  political  action  are,  and  the 
duty  of  the  statesman  will  be  to  shape  his  policy  with  refer- 
ence to  them.  It  is  important,  therefore,  to  examine  in  a 
scientific  spirit  the  things  that  have  been  taken  for  granted. 
The  reason  why  this  has  not  been  done  before  now  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  find.  Though  the  assumptions  in  question  have  been 
made  in  one  form  or  another,  not  in  two  or  three  essays  only, 
but  in  almost  every  political  treatise  in  existence,  they  have 
been  made  almost  unconsciously.  Their  implications  have 
not  been  seen,  much  less  thought  out.  It  could  hardly 
have  been  otherwise,  because  the  facts  and  principles  that 
would  enter  into  a  more  thorough  inquiry  have  only  recently 
begun  to  attract  attention.  They  do  not  fall  strictly  within 
the  province  of  political  science,  in  the  narrower  sense  of  the 
term.  They  belong  rather  to  sociology,  inasmuch  as  they  are 
facts  of  human  feeling  and  conduct,  as  conditioned  by  social 
relations,  by  movements  of  population,  and  by  the  interaction 
of  society  with  its  environment.  They  are  thus  typical  of 
the  postulates  of  the  social  sciences  generally.  All  build  in 
the  same  way  on  easily  made  assumptions  in  regard  to  the 
psychology  and  physiology  of  social  relationships.  The  as- 
sumptions may  be  true,  or  partially  true,  or  wholly  imaginary. 
Their  proper  character  will  come  to  light  when  sociology, 
in  the  course  of  that  systematic  study  of  the  fundamental 
phenomena  of  social  activity  that  we  may  look  for  in  the 
near  future,  takes  them  up  for  detailed  examination. 

Now  these  particular  assumptions  in  regard  to  the  nature 
and  conduct  of  political  majorities  are  among  the  most  inter- 
esting, as  they  are  among  the  most  important,  that  the  soci- 
ologist can  study  ;  and  therefore  my  second  and  chief  purpose 
with  the  political  notions  of  JMaine  and  Calhoun  is  to  subject 
their  underlying  and  unexpressed  assumptions  to  a  prelimi- 
nary examination  that  will  show  on  what  lines  a  more 
exhaustive  study  might  be  made,  and,  incidentally,  to  afford 
a  concrete  example  of  sociological  interpretation.     Let  us 


NATURE  AND  CONDUCT  OF  POLITICAL  MAJORITIES      183 

then  try  to  answer,  in  general  terms  at  least,  the  questions : 
What  is  the  social  nature  of  a  political  majority  ?  How  is  it 
composed  ?  What  is  its  psychology  ?  How  is  it  affected,  if 
at  all,  by  variations  of  environment  and  by  movements  of 
population,  and  what  conduct  will  this  nature  impose  ?  Do 
freely  acting  majorities  rush  into  radicalism,  or  sink  into  stag- 
nation, or  tend  to  become  moderate  and  progressive  ?  Does 
the  majority  rule  absolutely,  by  sheer  force  of  numbers,  or  do 
we  find  that  practically  a  numerical  majority  is  a  concurrent 
majority  after  all  —  a  highly  composite  product  of  association, 
brought  and  held  together  by  that  very  process  of  rational 
compromise  that  Calhoun  extolled? 

First  of  all,  then,  we  must  observe  that  a  political  majority 
is  a  consciously  formed  association  for  effecting  a  consciously 
apprehended  purpose ;  yet  it  never  is  an  unmixed  product 
of  perfectly  independent,  reasoned  action  on  the  part  of  all 
its  members.  Multitudes  of  adherents  have  ranged  them- 
selves by  personal  feeling  or  class  prejudice,  or  a  social 
instinct  that  prompts  them  to  act  in  political  matters  as  in 
other  things,  with  this  group  of  individuals  rather  than  with 
that.  Thus  the  membership  of  a  political  majority  exhibits 
a  complete  gradation  of  mental  development,  from  a  quick 
and  sensitive  intelligence  at  the  margin,  where  independent 
voting  occurs,  to  stupid  bigotry  in  the  unstimulated  interior 
of  the  mass.  Consequently,  there  is  a  reasonable  presump- 
tion that  the  temper  of  the  whole  is  neither  extremely  radi- 
cal nor  ultra-conservative,  but  very  moderately  progressive. 
For  a  like  reason  the  cohesion  of  a  political  majority  is  con- 
ditioned in  two  very  different  ways.  So  far  as  the  party  is 
formed  and  informed  by  reasoned  opinion,  it  is  affected  by 
all  the  possibilities  and  all  the  difficulties  of  winning  atten- 
tion and  establishing  conviction ;  and  these  vary  immensel}^ 
from  time  to  time,  with  the  temper  of  the  public  mind,  as 
well  as  with  the  character  of  the  question  or  policy  sub- 
mitted. On  the  other  hand,  so  far  as  cohesion  is  a  fact  of 
feeling  or  prejudice,  it  is  conditioned  by  a  thousand  circum- 
stances of  geographical  grouping,  occupation,  and  economic 
inequality  —  of  inheritance,  education,  and  religious  belief. 


184  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

Accordingly,  it  is  at  least  probable  that  a  numerical  majority 
is  not  formed  and  maintained  without  much  conciliation  and 
mutual  concession,  and  that  while  it  is  far  from  being  that 
concurrence  of  all  interests  which  Calhoun  desired,  it  is  yet 
the  concurrence  of  so  many  interests  that  its  conduct  can 
hardly  become  arbitrary  without  peril  of  disruption  or  of 
complete  disintegration. 

These  probabilities  we  have  now  to  test  by  more  particular 
observations.  Even  as  probabilities,  not  to  claim  more  for 
them,  they  would  not  necessarily  hold  good  of  small  or  of 
very  backward,  undifferentiated  populations.  There  the  radical 
or  the  conservative  element  might  be  out  of  all  proportion  to 
counteracting  influences,  and  majorities  themselves  be  almost 
homogeneous.  It  is  extremely  significant,  therefore,  to  find 
that  both  the  advocates  and  the  opponents  of  democracy 
habitually  draw  conclusions  from  relatively  simple  or  from 
special  or  exceptional  social  conditions.  The  prophets  of 
manifest  destiny  point  to  the  New  England  town  or  quote 
Freeman's  account  of  the  Sunday  morning  meeting  of  Swiss 
freemen.  Sir  Henry  Maine  assumes  that  very  nearly  all  the 
world  thinks  and  feels  like  a  village  community  under  a 
rajah.  On  the  other  hand,  predictions  of  the  dangerously 
radical  action  of  popular  power  are  commonly  based  on 
observations  of  the  politics  of  compact  city  states,  like  ancient 
Athens,  or  of  modern  municipalities,  like  Paris.  They  dwell 
on  majority  action  as  it  may  be  seen  in  versatile  populations, 
living  by  trade  or  industr}^  and  often  in  times  of  social  up- 
heaval. Burke  said  that  a  perfect  democracy  was  "  the  most 
shameless  thing  in  the  world,"  also  "  the  most  fearless  "  ;  ^  but 
as  his  conclusion  was  avowedly  drawn  from  the  French  Revo- 
lution, a  commentator  might  add  that  there  has  seldom  been 
a  more  fearless  induction  from  inadequate  and  exceptional 
facts.  Bluntschli  in  Germany  and  Lieber  in  America,  as 
teachers  of  political  science,  have  warned  thousands  of  pupils 
that  "  the  populace  cannot  long  retain  its  virtue  after  having 
drunk  the  intoxicating  wine  of  power,'"  ^  and  that  "  the  doc- 

1  "  Reflections  on  the  Hevolutiou  in  France  "  (Clarendon  Press  Edition, 
p.  110).  2  u^he  Theory  of  the  State,"  p.  437. 


NATURE   AND   CONDUCT  OF  POLITICAL  MAJORITIES      185 

trine  vox  populi  vox  Dei  is  essentially  unrepublican."  ^  But 
Lieber's  example  of  all  that  is  unrepublican  is  France,  and 
by  France  he  means  Paris,  and  by  Paris  he  means  Jacobins ; 
while  Bluntschli  hardly  gets  beyond  Athens.  In  fact,  he 
says  that  "democracy  found  its  most  logical  expression  in 
Athens,  and  its  nature  can  nowhere  be  better  studied  than 
in  the  Athenian  constitution."  ^  We  may  accept  these 
examples  for  all  that  they  can  possibly  be  worth.  We  may 
admit  that  wherever  the  Athens  of  Aristophanes  or  the  Paris 
of  Dumas  fils  is  reproduced,  there  democracy  will  be  shame- 
less ;  but  this  gives  us  no  warrant  for  saying  that  democracy 
among  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch  or  in  the  Hoosier  counties 
of  Indiana  will  be  shameless  in  quite  the  same  way  —  cer- 
tainly none  to  say  that  it  will  also  be  fearless. 

So  it  is  unscientific  to  argue  about  political  majorities  as  if 
their  nature  and  conduct  were  always  the  same,  irrespective 
of  social  evolution  or  of  the  size  and  complexity  of  states.  I 
want  to  make  my  meaning  at  this  point  very  plain.  I  do 
not  mean  merely  that  in  the  large  and  highly  developed  state 
majorities  wdll  be  constrained  by  facts  of  outward  circum- 
stance to  act  as  they  would  not  act  in  the  small  or  backward 
state.  This  every  one  admits.  I  mean  —  what  has  not  been 
so  distinctly  recognized  —  that  the  majority  will  desire  to 
act  in  the  one  case  as  it  would  not  act  in  the  other.  Its 
character  will  be  different :  it  will  think  differently  and  feel 
differently. 

Whatever  popular  power  may  have  been  in  the  past,  the 
political  majorities  that  we  have  to  study  to-day  are  coex- 
tensive with  every  stage  of  social  evolution.  For  politi- 
cal purposes,  Paris  is  no  longer  France.  In  the  United 
States,  the  popular  vote  in  the  last  presidential  election  ^ 
was  11,392,382,  of  which  5,538,233  votes  were  cast  for 
Cleveland  and  5,440,216  for  Harrison.  The  Democratic 
plurality  of  98,017  included  pluralities  in  all  the  Southern 
states;   in  the  Northern  commercial  ports  of   Boston,  New 

1  "Civil  Liberty  and  Self-Government,"  p.  407. 

2  "  The  Theory  of  the  State,"  p.  432. 

3  This  article  was  first  published  in  March,  1892. 


186  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

York,  Brooklyn,  and  San  Francisco ;  in  the  Eastern  indus- 
trial states  of  Connecticut  and  New  Jersey ;  and  in  twenty- 
five  manufacturing,  mining,  and  farming  counties  of  the 
strongly  Republican  state  of  Pennsylvania,  not  to  mention 
counties  of  most  unlike  industries,  qualities,  and  densities 
of  population,  scattered  through  the  other  Northern  com- 
monwealths. The  division  of  the  total  vote  by  percentages 
shows  still  more  strongly  the  fact  that  a  modern  political 
party  is  created  by  the  concurrence  of  minds  of  every  type, 
of  every  degree  of  intelligence  and  power,  and  motived  by 
every  possible  interest.  In  no  state  did  the  Democrats  fail 
to  poll  at  least  one-quarter  of  the  total  vote.  The  lowest 
•was  26.96  per  cent,  in  Vermont.  In  only  two  states  did  the 
Republicans  poll  less  than  one-fourth  of  the  total  vote. 
These  were  South  Carolina,  17.20  per  cent,  and  Texas, 
21.96  per  cent.  In  only  twelve  states  of  the  thirty-eight 
did  either  of  the  leading  parties  poll  less  than  40  per  cent 
of  the  total  vote.  These,  in  addition  to  the  three  already 
named,  were :  Alabama,  Republicans,  32.27  per  cent ;  Ar- 
kansas, Republicans,  37.67  per  cent ;  Georgia,  Republicans, 
28.84  per  cent ;  Kaiisas,  Democrats,  30.75  per  cent ;  Louisi- 
ana, Republicans,  26.34  per  cent;  Elaine,  Democrats,  39.37 
per  cent ;  Minnesota,  Democrats,  39.64  per  cent ;  Mississippi, 
Republicans,  25.21  per  cent ;  and  Nebraska,  Democrats,  39.75 
per  cent. 

While  such  figures  show  conclusively  the  composite  nature 
of  a  modern  political  majority,  and  by  implication  the  fact 
that  its  cohesion  is  liable  to  fatal  strain  at  a  thousand  points, 
the  shifting  of  majorities  on  questions  of  personal  fitness  or  of 
administrative  polic}^  when  neither  private  business  interest 
nor  class  feeling  is  to  any  great  extent  involved,  shows  ap- 
proximately what  is  the  proportion  of  voters  whose  action  is 
governed,  to  a  great  extent,  by  opinion  in  the  true  sense  of 
tlie  word,  rather  than  by  associations,  habits,  and  prejudices. 
These  are  the  reasoning,  mobile  fringe  of  the  party,  easily 
distinguished  from  the  instinct-guided,  slowly  moving  mass. 
For  examples,  we  may  take  the  gubernatorial  elections  of  Rus- 
sell in  Massachusetts  and  Pattison  in  Pennsvlvania  in  1890, 


NATURE  AND   CONDUCT  OF  POLITICAL  MAJORITIES      187 

and  of  Campbell  in  Ohio  and  Boies  in  Iowa  in  1889.  Mak- 
ing all  comparisons,  for  the  sake  of  uniformity,  with  the  presi- 
dential vote  in  1888,  the  shifting,  by  percentages,  was  within 
these  limits :  in  Massachusetts,  in  1888,  Cleveland  received 
44.09  per  cent  of  the  total  vote  ;  Russell,  in  1890,  49.22  per 
cent.  In  Pennsylvania,  Cleveland,  in  1888,  received  44.7T 
per  cent  of  the  total  vote ;  Pattison,  in  1890,  50.01  per  cent. 
In  Ohio,  Cleveland  received,  in  1888,  46.79  per  cent  of  the 
entire  vote,  and  Campbell,  in  1889,  48.91  per  cent.  In 
Iowa,  Cleveland,  in  1888,  received  44.50  per  cent  of  the 
whole  vote,  and  Boies,  in  1889,  49.94  per  cent.  It  would 
be  an  extraordinary  upheaval  that  should  result  in  more 
decisive  political  changes  than  these  elections  were ;  and  it 
would  be  too  much  to  claim  that  in  these  the  entire  effect 
was  produced  by  a  change  of  opinion.  It  is,  therefore,  fair 
to  conclude  that  the  total  possible  gain  or  loss  to  a  political 
party  through  strictly  independent  voting  does  not  exceed, 
under  the  most  favourable  circumstances,  five  per  cent  of  the 
maximum  total  vote  of  a  presidential  year,  and  that  the 
number  of  voters  likely  to  be  decisively  influenced  by  mere 
opinion,  apart  from  personal,  class,  or  sectional  interests, 
is  not  more  than  two  and  a  half  or  three  per  cent  of  the 
whole. 

But  other  forces  than  opinion  may  on  occasion  play  a  de- 
termining part,  and  an  examination  of  the  geographical  dis- 
tribution of  independent  voting  will  show  why.  The  shifting 
vote  may  be  very  evenly  distributed  bj^  counties,  or  according 
to  density  of  population,  or  it  may  be  massed  in  particular 
sections.  The  contrast  afforded  by  Massachusetts  and  Penn- 
sylvania is  instructive.  Governor  Russell  was  elected  by  a 
Democratic  vote  only  11,348  less  than  was  cast  for  Cleveland 
in  1888,  while  his  opponent,  Mr.  Brackett,  received  52,438 
votes  less  than  Harrison.  This  Republican  disaffection,  as 
shown  by  the  vote  by  counties,  was  spread  with  astonishing 
evenness  from  one  end  of  the  state  to  the  other.  The  dense 
manufacturing  and  trading  populations  of  Suffolk,  Essex, 
Middlesex,  Worcester,  and  Hampden,  and  the  scattered  agri- 
cultural and  fishing  communities  of  Barnstable,  Dukes,  Frank- 


188  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

lin,  and  Nantucket,  were  all  affected  in  the  same  way  in  their 
several  degrees.  Turn  now  to  Pennsylvania.  Here  it  was 
not  by  staying  away  from  the  polls,  but  by  an  actual  trans- 
ference of  votes,  that  Republicans  elected  Governor  Patti- 
son,  since  his  total  vote  was  464,209  as  compared  with 
446,633  cast  for  Cleveland  in  1888.  Let  us  see,  then,  what 
counties  changed  their  pluralities,  and  in  what  others  con- 
siderable Democratic  gains  were  made.  Twenty  counties 
changed  their  pluralities,  namely :  Butler,  Cameron,  Craw- 
ford, Elk,  Erie,  Fayette,  Jefferson,  Lackawanna,  Luzerne, 
McKean,  Mercer,  Mifflin,  Montgomery,  Northumberland,  Pot- 
ter, Venango,  Warren,  Washington,  Westmoreland,  and  Wy- 
oming. A  glance  at  the  map  reveals  the  fact  that  all  but  six 
of  these  counties  lie  in  the  northern  belt,  where  the  influences 
of  ancestry,  tradition,  and  industry  have  been  conspicuously 
different  from  those  experienced  in  the  southern  belt.  The 
northern  counties  were  settled  by  immigration  from  New 
York  and  New  England,  to  which  was  added  a  considerable 
intermixture  of  the  Scotch  Irish.  Their  industries,  espe- 
cially in  recent  years,  have  been  of  the  sort  that  develop  the 
instinct  of  enterprise,  and  accustom  the  mind  to  ideas  of 
change  and  progress.  The  counties  in  this  list  not  in  the 
northern  belt  are  in  the  southwestern  corner  and  in  the 
middle  belt,  except  Montgomery,  near  the  southeastern 
corner.  The  latter  contains  a  large  suburban  population, 
whose  business  interests  are  in  Philadelphia,  and  a  large  pro- 
portion of  the  independent  feeling  that  was  expressed  during 
the  campaign  in  meetings  and  in  newspaper  articles  in  that 
city  was  felt  at  the  polls,  not  in  the  city  proper,  but  in  Mont- 
gomery County  and  the  neighbouring  county  of  Delaware. 

The  other  counties  in  which  important  Democratic  gains 
were  made  were  Allegheny,  containing  the  great  industrial 
cities  of  Allegheny  and  Pittsburg  and  lying  on  the  western 
border  of  the  state,  between  Washington  County  and  the 
counties  of  the  northern  belt ;  Beaver,  originally  included  in 
Allegheny  and  Washington :  Blair,  Bradford,  Huntington, 
Indiana,  Susquehanna,  and  Tioga,  in  the  middle  and  north- 
ern belts ;   Schuylkill,  the  great  anthracite  mining  county. 


NATURE  AND  CONDUCT  OF  POLITICAL  MAJORITIES      189 

lying  just  within  the  southeastern  limit  of  the  middle  belt; 
and  Chester,  in  the  southeastern  corner  of  the  state. 

There  remains,  besides  the  city  and  county  of  Philadel- 
phia, the  great  wedge  of  land  extending  from  the  Maryland 
border  well  into  the  interior  of  the  state.  Sociologically, 
this  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  regions  of  the  United 
States.  It  was  settled  by  Germans,  Swedes,  and  Welsh, 
French  Huguenots,  and  people  of  English  descent  of  a  much 
less  aggressive  type  than  those  who  pushed  their  way  into 
the  state  from  the  north.  In  many  parts  of  this  region  the 
dialect  spoken  is  unintelligible  to  persons  not  to  the  manner 
born.  In  others,  of  course,  the  English  influence  strongly 
predominates ;  but,  in  all,  the  type  of  feeling  and  opinion  and 
the  modes  of  life  are  unlike  those  found  elsewhere.  This 
entire  region  was  scarcely  touched  by  the  Pattison  wave. 
In  the  returns  by  counties  we  discover  hardly  a  suggestion 
of  independent  voting.  In  the  prosperous  counties  of  Berks, 
Franklin,  and  Lancaster  the  Democratic  vote  actually  fell 
off,  as  it  might  fall  in  any  other  non-presidential  year,  while 
in  Cumberland  and  York  it  barely  held  its  own,  with  gains 
of  less  than  two  hundred  in  each. 

From  such  facts  as  these  it  is  evident  that  different  de- 
grees of  sensitiveness  to  opinion  may  be  only  one  phase  of 
fundamental  differences  of  mental  quality  characterizing  the 
entire  populations  of  large  geographical  sections.  Feelings, 
instincts,  habits,  as  well  as  ideas,  may  be  profoundly  differ- 
ent. Consequently,  when  questions  arise  that  appeal  to 
emotion  as  well  as  to  intelligence,  a  disintegration  of  majori- 
ties is  possible  to  an  extent  that  could  never  be  effected  by 
true  independent  voting. 

What  is  the  implication  ?  Obviously  it  is  that  if,  in  many 
parts  of  a  country,  the  small  portion  of  a  political  party  which 
is  sensitive  to  opinion  is  separated  geographically  from  the 
portion  that  is  governed  chiefly  by  habit,  the  cohesion  of  a 
majority  is  almost  wholly  an  affair  of  feeling  rather  than  of 
intelligence,  since  great  numbers  of  voters  may  be  entirely 
untouched  by  the  currents  of  opinion  that  influence  others. 
This  is  very  far,  however,  from  being  the  whole  fact,  or  even 


190  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

the  most  essential  part  of  the  fact.  The  cohesion  is  not  only 
one  of  feeling  apart  from  opinion ;  it  is  one  of  feeling  into 
which  no  radical  element  enters.  It  is  an  affair  of  a  very- 
primitive,  slowly  changing,  in  a  word  a  very  conservative, 
feeling,  and  cannot  be  anything  else  ;  since  segregated  masses 
of  voters  that  are  untouched  by  the  progressive  opinions  of 
more  active-minded  men  are  equally  unaffected  by  their  more 
radical  feelings.  But  all  this  means  that  the  conduct  of  a 
majority  so  constituted  is  strictly  conditioned.  It  must  have 
and  will  have  a  conservative  regard  for  a  primitive  kind  of  po- 
litical instincts.  If  it  undertakes  progressive  changes,  these 
must  be  only  in  matters  that  do  not  interest  unprogressive 
communities  or  disturb  their  uneventful  way  of  life. 

It  is  desirable,  therefore,  before  going  further,  to  have  an 
answer  to  the  question  whether  the  geographical  segrega- 
tion of  the  progressive  and  the  unprogressive  types  of  voters 
is  likely  to  be  a  general  and  permanent  feature  of  demo- 
cratic republics.  Sociology  can  give  this  answer :  The  even 
distribution  of  the  independent  vote  in  Massachusetts  is 
exceptional,  and  always  will  be  so.  It  involves  either  ho- 
mogeneity of  population  or  a  very  even  distribution  of  heter- 
ogeneous elements.  This  last  is  the  fact  in  Massachusetts, 
but  not  in  many  other  parts  of  the  country.  The  unequal 
distribution  seen  in  Pennsylvania  is  more  typical.  Not  only 
did  the  earlier  stocks  in  our  population  show  a  strong  ten- 
dency to  local  segregation  as  they  moved  westward  across 
the  continent,  but  the  new  elements  brought  in  by  immi- 
gration are  doing  the  same  thing.  The  outlines  of  these 
groupings  may  change,  but  the  groupings  on  the  wliole  will 
be  permanent,  notwithstanding  the  increasing  facilities  of 
communication  and  the  more  nearly  perfect  diffusion  of 
knowledge.  The  people  of  the  eastern  shore  of  ^Maryland, 
the  Tennessee  mountaineers,  the  Northern  and  the  Southern 
stocks  in  Indiana,  Illinois,  and  Kansas,  will  retain  their  cliar- 
acteristics  in  spite  of  a  thousand  levelling  influences.  For 
population  is  not  a  quiescent  mass,  even  after  the  great  move- 
ments of  migratioii  and  immigration  have  ceased.  A  sifting 
process  is  ever  going  on,  and  it  fixes  types  of  character  for 


NATURE  AND   CONDUCT  OF  POLITICAL   MAJORITIES       191 

entire  communities.  Young  men  of  push  and  determination, 
that  happen  to  be  born  and  bred  in  the  community  that  is 
satisfied  to  let  well  enough  alone,  get  out  of  it  as  soon  as 
Providence  permits  and  their  savings  enable  them  to  do  so. 
Young  men  of  the  other  sort  stay  where  they  find  them- 
selves, and  add  their  inertia  to  the  common  stock.  So  the 
progressive  are  continually  drafted  off  to  where  the  pro- 
gressive have  already  created  the  better  opportunities  of  life. 
If,  however,  the  man  of  progressive  instincts  is  unable  for 
any  reason  to  leave  the  habitat  of  his  birth,  another  thing 
happens.  One  side  of  his  nature,  unused,  finding  nothing 
to  stimulate  its  activity,  remains  undeveloped.  He  lives  as 
much  per  day  as  the  men  about  him  permit  him  to  live,  and 
no  more.  He  becomes  one  of  them,  to  know  good  and  evil 
no  more  than  they. 

This  sifting  and  character-shaping  process  would  be  suf- 
ficient, though  unsupplemented  by  other  influences,  to  per- 
petuate the  geographical  segregation  of  progressive  and 
unprogressive  types.  Actually,  however,  it  is  supplemented 
in  a  powerful  way.  The  progressive  vote,  geographically 
localized,  may  be  unable  to  accomplish  the  legislative  or 
administrative  changes  it  desires  over  wide  areas,  that  is,  in 
national  affairs,  and  yet  in  local  affairs  it  may  be  in  com- 
mand of  the  situation.  From  this  fact  two  momentous 
results  follow.  First,  under  the  conditions  supposed,  de- 
mocracy, however  radical,  the  numerical  majority,  however 
powerful,  will  never  destroy  or  emasculate  local  self-govern- 
ment. Affairs  that  are  not  properly  local  may  be  transferred 
to  the  central  administration ;  but  there  need  not  be  the 
slightest  fear  that,  in  a  nation  of  wide  territorial  extent,  of 
varied  industries  and  heterogeneous  population,  the  unin- 
stitutional,  inarticulate  massing  of  power  that  Lieber  so 
dreaded  will  go  far  enough  to  destroy  independent  local 
action  in  matters  that  are  of  strictly  local  concern.  Second, 
progressive  legislation  and  administrative  reforms  in  a  great 
many  matters  will  be  accomplished,  in  a  country  like  our 
own,  by  some  of  the  state  governments  long  before  corre- 
sponding changes  are  attempted  by  the  national  government. 


192  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

State  governments  will  set  the  example.  The  abolition  of 
slavery  was  a  perfect  historical  illustration,  because  the  con- 
ditions were  exactly  of  the  kind  that  I  have  been  describing. 
Banking  laws,  bankruptcy  laws,  the  regulation  of  railroad 
management,  are  examples  from  economic  interests.  But 
if  thus  in  some  states  public  policy  will  be  far  in  advance  of 
public  policy  in  the  nation  at  large,  it  will  be  even  farther  in 
advance  of  public  policy  in  other  states.  An  examination  of 
the  educational,  economic,  and  punitive  legislation  of  the 
different  commonwealths  of  the  American  Union  always 
reveals  an  astonishing  range  of  variation. 

Now  it  is  this  unequal  pressure  and  influence  of  public 
policy  that  powerfully  supplements  the  natural  selection 
which  is  all  the  while  increasing  the  mental  mobility  of 
some  communities  and  confirming  the  conservatism  of  others. 
The  natural  segregations  of  population  types  do  not  often 
correspond  accurately  to  state  lines,  but  the  influence  of 
county,  township,  and  municipal  governments  is  not  to  be 
ignored,  especially  in  education  and  in  many  economic  mat- 
ters, including  taxation.  The  effect  of  state  legislation, 
however,  in  many  cases,  is  to  bring  about  a  close  approxima- 
tion of  natural  divisions  even  to  state  lines.  It  transforms 
or  drives  out  certain  elements ;  not  always  directly,  by  edu- 
cation or  by  the  incidence  of  taxation,  but  quite  as  often 
indirectly,  by  modifying  the  medium  of  feeling  and  ideas 
in  which  the  individual  is  born  and  nurtured. 

We  have  now  the  data  for  a  few  final  conclusions.  A 
political  majority  of  the  voters  of  a  large  country,  with  diver- 
sified resources  and  occupations  and  a  heterogeneous  popu- 
lation, will  be  governed  mainly  by  a  conservative  instinct 
and  will  be  modified  only  very  slowly  by  opinion.  It  will 
carefully  respect  the  fundamental  political  prejudices  of 
"  slow  "  people.  Among  such  prejudices  are  those  in  favour 
of  personal  liberty  in  the  broad  sense  of  the  word,  against 
the  increase  of  direct  taxation,  against  certain  forms  of 
sumptuary  legislation,  and  against  interference  with  such 
traditional  political  habits  as  have  become  a  second  nature. 
In  America  those  legal  and  political  practices   that  we  all 


NATURE  AND  CONDUCT  OF  POLITICAL  MAJORITIES      193 

agree  in  regarding  as  fundamental  defences  of  civil  liberty- 
are  in  little  danger  from  the  action  of  popular  majorities. 
The  common  law,  the  traditional  forms  of  procedure,  and 
such  rights  as  those  of  public  meeting  are  quite  strong  enough 
in  popular  respect  to  be  perfectly  secure.  Written  constitu- 
tional limitations  are  of  inestimable  value  for  giving  definite- 
ness  to  the  action  of  conservative  forces,  but  it  is  by  the  power 
of  conservative  habits  that  the  constitution  itself  is  maintained. 

So  far,  we  seem  to  be  in  general  agreement  with  the  con- 
clusions of  Sir  Henry  Maine.  Popular  government,  it  would 
appear,  is  likely  to  be  on  the  whole  unprogressive.  The  feel- 
ings and  beliefs  that  hold  a  majority  together  are,  in  sub- 
stance, a  faith  that  majority  action  will  defend  the  elementary 
rights,  the  common  interests,  and  the  established  political 
customs  of  the  people.  But  mere  faith  of  this  sort  would 
impart  no  power  of  aggressive  action,  and  without  some  slight 
infusion  of  aggressiveness  there  can  be  no  progress.  Yet 
that  popular  governments  will  be  moderately  progressive  has 
been  affirmed  to  be  probable,  and  it  has  been  shown  that  in 
any  majority  a  progressive  mental  element  is  united  with  the 
more  dominant  conservatism.  It  remains  for  us  to  glance  at 
the  conditions  that  enable  this  element  to  hold  the  majority 
in  some  degree  to  a  positive  policy.  While  everything  must 
be  avoided  that  conservatism  is  unitedly  or  in  the  mass  inter- 
ested in  having  let  alone,  much  can  be  done  in  matters  to 
which  conservatism  is  indifferent,  or  which  it  can  gradually 
be  brought  to  desire. 

One  means  of  progress  that  has  played  a  momentous  part 
in  history  need  not  detain  us,  since  its  effectiveness  is  one 
of  the  most  familiar  truths  of  political  science.  I  refer,  of 
course,  to  the  unifying  and  stimulating  influence  of  war. 
Nothing  else  in  the  same  degree  rouses  a  people  to  positive 
action,  and  its  influence  is  felt  in  a  thousand  ways  long  after 
the  immediate  occasion  has  disappeared.  A  condition  that 
is  more  strictl}^  sociological  is  the  flow  of  population  to  towns 
and  cities,  which  bids  fair,  in  time,  to  give  a  numerical  pre- 
ponderance to  the  voters  that  are  in  close  and  constant  touch 
with  fresh  currents  of  opinion.     But  there  is  yet  one  other 


194  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

condition  that  is  even  more  definitely  sociological,  and  to  this 
I  wish  briefly  to  call  attention.  That  the  organization  of 
numbers  of  men  for  any  form  of  cooperation  is  subject  to 
psychological  laws,  has  been  from  the  outset  our  assumption, 
either  tacit  or  express.  A  law  not  mentioned  hitherto,  but 
now  to  be  recognized  as  one  of  controlling  influence,  is  that 
of  the  relation  of  activity  to  cohesion  and  to  coordination. 
In  the  individual  mind  a  logical  association  of  ideas  cannot 
be  perfectly  maintained  when  mental  activity  slackens.  Not 
more  can  an  association  of  individuals  be  held  together  with- 
out continuous  agitation  or  discussion.  A  church  or  a  club, 
a  scientific  association  or  a  philanthropic  guild  fails  to  hold 
the  allegiance  of  its  members  when  it  ceases  to  stimulate 
their  thought.  However  predominant  feeling  may  be  in  the 
social  bond,  it  is  never  wholly  dissociated  from  ideas  and  be- 
liefs, even  in  the  most  ignorant  individuals  or  communities. 
Whatever  power  of  thought  there  is  must  be  enlisted  and 
kept  in  action,  or  feeling  itself  ceases  and  all  interest  disap- 
pears. The  populations  of  large  geographical  sections  may  be 
absolutely  unresponsive  to  some  movements  of  opinion,  and 
it  may  often  be  impossible  to  put  them  in  touch  with  the 
ideas  of  the  larger  world ;  but  now  and  then  they  must  be 
reached,  their  power  to  respond  must  be  put  to  the  test,  or 
they  will  cease  to  have  any  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  world 
beyond  their  local  borders. 

A  majority,  then,  cannot  be  held  together,  even  by  bonds 
of  prejudice  and  habit,  if  it  follows  too  long  a  passive  policy. 
Mr.  Spencer  has  earnestly  protested  in  all  his  political  writ- 
ings against  the  overactivity  of  parliaments.  Yet  as  a  psy- 
chologist and  sociologist  he  has  done  more  than  any  other 
thinker  to  enable  us  to  understand  that,  since  all  organic  co- 
hesion is  conditioned  by  growth,  a  policy  of  ceaseless  activity 
is  necessary,  as  a  fact  of  social  psychology,  if  any  political 
cooperation  is  to  be  kept  up.  Moreover,  the  policy  must  be 
one  that  appeals  to  the  people  as  well  as  to  the  leaders.  It 
must  awaken  popular  interest  and  quicken  popular  thought. 

Summing  up  our  conclusions,  we  have  these  net  results:  a 
numerical  majority  in  a  differentiated  societ}',  occupying  an 


NATURE  AND   CONDUCT  OF  POLITICAL  MAJORITIES      195 

extended  and  diversified  geographical  area,  is  a  concurrent 
majority  in  composition,  though  by  no  means  a  perfect  one. 
It  is  held  together  more  by  feeling  than  by  opinion,  and  con- 
servative feeling  predominates  in  respect  to  all  fundamental 
rights  and  established  political  usages.  But  the  cohesion  of 
feeling  and  habit  will  not  endure  if  there  is  no  intellectual 
activity  and  no  growth  whatever  of  opinion.  The  majority 
must,  therefore,  have  a  policy  of  the  sort  that  admits  of  dis- 
cussion and  fosters  it.  In  short,  the  cohesion  of  a  majority  is 
conditioned  at  one  limit  by  conservative  feelings  that  cannot 
be  contemned,  and  at  the  other  limit  by  the  necessity  of  push- 
ing a  policy  of  activity  or  progress  as  far  and  as  fast  as  the 
inertia  of  the  mass  will  permit. 

A  political  majority,  therefore,  has  a  nature  that  can  be 
described  in  terms  of  the  laws  of  social  psychology,  and  its 
conduct  is  subject  to  natural  limitations.  It  must  follow  a 
mean  course  between  the  mischievous  conservatism  of  Maine's 
prognosis  and  the  shameless  radicalism  of  Burke's,  or  it  will 
cease  to  be  a  majority.  As  social  structure  becomes  more 
complex  the  difficulties  of  holding  the  diverse  elements  of  a 
majority  together  in  a  working  coordination  rapidly  increase. 
All  other  things  remaining  the  same,  the  inertia  of  conserva- 
tism would  increase,  and  political  stagnation  would  bring 
progress  to  an  end.  National  disintegration  would  follow. 
But  other  things  do  not  and  cannot  remain  unchanged.  As 
the  difficulties  of  maintaining  party  cohesion  increase,  the 
necessity  of  adhering  to  a  positive  policy  becomes  more  im- 
perative. Agitation  must  be  kept  up.  The  "campaign  of 
education  "  must  be  vigorously  pushed.  No  fact  in  the  later 
history  of  party  politics  in  England  stands  out  more  clearly 
than  this.  In  our  own  country  it  has  been  disguised  some- 
what by  the  overwhelming  strength  of  the  "  spoils  system," 
but  it  is  becoming  apparent  now  even  to  the  most  "  practical  '* 
of  politicians.  Progress  in  this  form  brings  its  own  safe- 
guards with  it.  As  voters  become  responsive  to  opinion,  they 
become  capable  of  independence.  Consequently,  as  party 
policy  becomes  positive,  it  is  compelled  at  the  same  time  to 
become  ever  more  heedful  of  the  teachings  of  experience. 


196  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

While  conservative  feeling  will  protect  elementary  rights  and 
useful  customs,  the  slowly  acquired  power  to  learn  from  ex- 
perience will  enable  popular  governments,  as  time  goes  on, 
to  rectify  their  inevitable  mistakes  in  those  difficult  affairs  of 
industrial  legislation  and  finance  in  which  undisciplined  pub- 
lic opinion  at  first  so  easily  goes  wrong.  The  unequal  geo- 
graphical distribution  of  the  progressive  part  of  the  population 
will  always  aid  the  formation  of  sound  judgments  from  expe- 
rience, since  many  costly  experiments  will  be  made  at  fii'st 
locally,  on  a  relatively  small  scale. 


XII 
THE  DESTINIES  OF  DEMOCRACY 


XII 

THE   DESTINIES    OF   DEMOCRACY 

Whether  it  is  more  presumptuous  for  the  philosopher  to 
write  history  or  for  the  historian  to  write  philosophy,  is  a 
question  that  "  searcheth  the  reins "  of  the  scholar.  The 
philosophy  that  is  not  verified  and  made  real  by  an  incor- 
poration of  historical  materials  has  not  even  an  intellectual 
value.  It  is  but  an  esoteric  sort  of  re  very,  in  space  of  only 
one  or  of  more  than  three  dimensions,  as  you  please.  History* 
that  is  not  organized  and  interpreted  by  philosophy  is  only 
a  dignified  form  of  the  tale  that  is  told  by  an  idiot ;  it 
signifies  nothing.  And  yet,  to  combine  history  and  philoso- 
phy, and  to  write,  for  example,  philosophical  history,  is  per- 
haps the  supreme  achievement  of  the  human  mind.  The 
analytical  and  speculative  intellect  is  seldom  keenly  alive  to 
the  interest,  the  freshness,  and,  above  all,  the  exact  values,  of 
concrete  facts.  The  inquisitive  mind  of  either  the  journalistic 
or  the  antiquarian  type  may  be  narrowly  analytical  or  loosely 
synthetical,  but  it  rarely  has  that  true  constructive  power  in 
which  analytic  and  synthetic  genius  are  combined. 

No  less  degree  of  genius  than  that  which  blends  the 
historical  with  the  philosophical  intellect,  and  is  able  to 
apply  the  highest  constructive  power  to  the  tremendous  task 
of  explaining  political  progress,  will  ever  give  us  a  true 
account  of  the  involved  relations  of  liberty  and  democracy 
—  the  most  complex,  the  most  momentous,  the  most  fasci- 
nating, and  the  most  baffling  products  of  social  evolution. 
Men  of  unquestioned  genius  have  essayed  this  achievement 
and  have  failed.  Neither  De  Tocqueville  nor  Bryce,  neither 
Mill  nor  Sumner  jNIaine,  has  satisfactorily  described  either 
liberty  or  democracy.     True  conceptions  of  liberty  are  to  be 

199 


200  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

found  only  in  writings  on  constitutional  law;  and  even  in 
these  writings,  which  the  general  reader  usually  passes  over 
as  too  technical  for  his  needs,  liberty  is  accurately  conceived 
only  if  the  authors  in  some  degree  unite  the  philosophic  with 
the  historical  temperament.  Democracy  is  nowhere  truth- 
fully portrayed,  because  no  writer  ever  views  it  comprehen- 
sively. Democracy  is  more  than  a  form  of  government ;  it 
is  more  than  universal  suffrage ;  it  is  more,  even,  than  popular 
power. 

That  Mr.  William  Edward  Hartpole  Lecky  should  write 
two  compact  volumes  on  the  development  of  democracy  and 
the  struggle  of  liberty  for  existence  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
was  as  inevitable  as  that  Edmund  Burke  should  have  opinions 
on  the  French  Revolution.  Mr.  Lecky  has  throughout  his 
life  been  deeply  interested  in  the  philosophical  aspects  of  so- 
tjial  progress.  He  has  studied  deeply  those  developments  of 
rationalism  and  of  morals  in  which  are  disclosed  the  psycho- 
logical causes  of  political  changes  and  of  institutional  forms. 
He  has  depicted  with  admiring  appreciation  that  type  of  civil 
liberty  and  of  parliamentary  government  by  a  property-own- 
ing, leisured  class,  which  was  the  chief  contribution  that  the 
eighteenth  century  made  to  civilization.  At  the  end  of  these 
employments  he  has  in  recent  years,  before  and  since  his  elec- 
tion to  the  House  of  Commons,  been  deeply  interested  in  fin 
de  Steele  democratic  politics,  and  has  been  impelled  to  formu- 
late his  opinions  upon  every  burning  modern  question,  from 
land  nationalization  and  municipal  tramways  to  woman  suf- 
frage and  vivisection.  How  could  he  do  less,  then,  than 
clothe  his  judgments  in  the  brilliant,  the  often  fascinating 
language  that  has  made  his  writings  no  less  literature  than 
history,  and,  rounding  and  combining  them  into  an  ample 
whole,  make  them  into  a  book ! 

Not  less  inevitable  was  it,  however,  that  Mr.  Lecky's 
treatise  on  these  momentous  themes  should  in  value  fall 
below,  rather  than  rise  above,  the  great  works  of  De  Tocque- 
ville,  Maine,  and  Bryce.  Mr.  Lecky  is  philosophical,  but  he 
is  not  a  philosopher.  He  is  an  historian,  but  he  does  not 
grasp  history.     Li  the  minute  analysis  of  a  special  topic  his 


THE  DESTINIES  OF  DEMOCRACY  201 

acuteness  is  often  admirable,  but  he  never  partitions  his  whole 
subject  into  its  logical,  or  even  into  its  descriptive,  or  its 
chronological  divisions.  He  can  put  together  with  fine  liter- 
ary art  the  descriptive  or  the  narrative  elements  of  a  single 
chapter,  but  in  higher  constructive  power  he  is  astonishingly 
deficient.  He  cannot  put  together  the  chapters  of  a  book. 
There  is  absolutely  no  reason  why  any  one  of  the  chapters  of 
"Democracy  and  Liberty"  should  stand  where  it  does  rather 
than  somewhere  else.  The  work  is  therefore  an  admirable,  a 
brilliant  achievement  in  high-class  journalism ;  it  is  nothing 
more.  Nevertheless,  it  may  easily  prove  to  be  more  useful 
for  popular  instruction  than  any  preceding  account  of  modern 
political  tendencies.  Let  us,  then,  try  to  see  exactly  what 
Mr.  Lecky  attempts  to  show,  and  to  estimate  his  success 
within  the  limits  which  he  has  imposed  upon  himself,  and 
those  which  his  literary  habits  and  the  characteristics  of  his 
mind  have  imposed  upon  him. 

In  "  Democracy  and  Liberty "  Mr.  Lecky  distinctly  states 
a  definite  thesis,  and  his  account  of  the  political  and  social 
changes  that  have  been  taking  place  in  Europe  and  the 
United  States  during  the  present  century  is  evidently  re- 
garded by  him  as  a  demonstration  of  his  proposition.  With 
his  flagrant  disregard  of  logical  order,  however,  the  statement 
of  his  thesis  is  so  placed  that  only  the  attentive,  line-by-line 
reader  will  discover  it.  Half  of  his  reviewers  have  missed  it, 
and  have,  in  consequence,  praised  or  blamed  him  for  argu- 
ments that  he  has  not  so  much  as  attempted  to  make.  The 
words  that  should  have  been  put  at  the  beginning  of  his  first 
chapter  are  thrown  in  almost  parenthetically  at  the  end  of  the 
twenty-fifth  page,  as  follows  :  — 

"  One  of  the  great  divisions  of  politics  in  our  day  is  coming 
to  be  whether,  at  the  last  resort,  the  world  should  be  gov- 
erned by  its  ignorance  or  by  its  intelligence.  According  to 
the  one  party,  the  preponderating  power  should  be  with  edu- 
cation and  property ;  according  to  the  other,  the  ultimate 
source  of  power,  the  supreme  right  of  appeal  and  of  control, 
belongs  legitimately  to  the  majority  of  the  nation  told  by 
the   head,  —  or,   in   other   words,   to   the  poorest,  the  most 


202  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ignorant,  the  most  incapable,  who  are  necessarily  the  most 
numerous. 

"  It  is  a  theory  which  assuredly  reverses  all  the  past  expe- 
riences of  mankind.  In  every  field  of  human  enterprise,  in 
all  the  competitions  of  life,  by  the  inexorable  law  of  nature, 
superiority  lies  with  the  few  and  not  with  the  many,  and  suc- 
cess can  only  be  attained  by  placing  the  guiding  and  control- 
ling power  mainly  in  their  hands." 

Here  we  have  Mr.  Leckj^'s  conception  of  democracy.  It  is 
the  political  power  of  the  ignorant  many,  exercised  through  a 
formal  method  of  procedure  which  essentially  consists  in  a 
count  by  the  head,  irrespective  of  personal  qualifications.  It 
is  the  realization  of  the  theoretical  politics  of  Rousseau.  Very 
evidently  we  have  here,  also,  Mr.  Lecky's  profound  convic- 
tion that  ultimate  political  decision  by  the  ignorant  many  is 
equivalent  to  the  rule  of  ignorance,  and  is  therefore  predes- 
tined by  the  laws  of  nature  and  the  experience  of  mankind  to 
disastrous  failure.  His  review  of  the  recent  politics  and  leg- 
islation of  Western  Europe  and  the  United  States  is  accord- 
ingly made  in  the  belief  that  they  disclose  the  unmistakable 
beginnings  of  the  decay  of  civilization.  Incidentally  he 
attempts,  also,  to  establish  the  secondary  proposition  that 
England  is  probably  to  suffer  more  severely  than  any  other 
nation  from  the  rule  of  ignorance  and  the  decline  of  liberty. 
The  enlightenment,  the  nobility,  the  sane  administration  of 
affairs,  which  have  made  her  the  leader  in  human  progress, 
are  to  disappear  under  the  reign  of  universal  vulgarity,  nar- 
tow-mindedness,  and  all-conquering  folly. 

A  merely  formal  criticism  of  such  a  work  would  inquire 
whether  this  conception  of  democracy  is  scientific,  of  un- 
doubted philosophical  lineage,  or  only  a  base-born  notion  that 
has  been  picked  up  among  the  people,  clothed  in  literary 
purple  and  fine  linen,  and  passed  off  in  intellectual  society  as 
of  the  legitimate  aristocracy  of  ideas.  It  would  next  inquire 
whether  ultimate  political  decision  by  the  relatively  ignorant 
many  is  necessarily  the  same  thing  as  the  rule  of  ignorance, 
and  therefore  foreordained  to  failure. 

Under  criticism  of  this  kind  Mr.  Lecky's  thesis  would  suffer 


THE  DESTINIES  OF  DEMOCRACY  203 

severely.  His  conception  of  democracy  is  a  bastard  idea,  half 
philosophical  and  half  commonplace.  Scientifically,  democ- 
racy must  be  defined  as  a  form  of  government,  or  as  a  form 
of  the  state,  or  as  a  form  of  society,  or  as  a  combination  of 
the  three.  As  a  form  of  government,  democracy  consists  in 
the  actual  administration  of  political  affairs  through  universal 
suffrage.  Democracy  as  a  form  of  government  cannot  coexist 
with  representative  institutions ;  it  admits  executive  and 
judicial  offices  only  of  the  most  restricted  ministerial  type ; 
it  demands  the  decision  of  every  question  of  legal  and  execu- 
tive detail,  no  less  than  of  every  fundamental  principle  of 
right  and  of  policy,  by  a  direct  popular  vote.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  a  democratic  government  on  a  large  scale. 
Democracy  as  a  form  of  the  state  is  popular  sovereignty,  — 
that  is,  a  popular  distribution  of  formal  political  power.  It 
signifies  the  right  of  the  masses  of  the  people  to  participate 
in  the  creation  of  the  government  or  machinery  of  adminis- 
tration. It  may  act  through  representative  institutions,  as 
well  as  directly.  These  distinctions,  which  in  their  essential 
features  were  made  by  Aristotle,  have  in  recent  years  become 
familiar.  Democracy  as  a  form  of  society  is  not  so  often  or 
quite  so  easily  discriminated.  It  is  a  democratic  organization 
and  control  of  the  non-political  forms  of  association.  It  is 
also  something  besides.  In  a  perfpr-tly  (\(^.mnora.t\o^  ■?'^rieAy 
the  masses  would  possess  that  indefinite,  unformed,  but  ^ 
actual  political  powt^r  which  lies  back  of  the  formal  power 
that  registers  its  decisions  through  tha.Act  of-Yotiiigy  In  the 
poorer  ranks  of  the  population  there  would  be  a  volume  of 
feeling,  opinion,  and  will,  that  might  at  any  moment  assume 
a  political  form,  either  legal  or  revolutionary.  In  Professor 
Burgess's  nomenclature,  democracy  as  a  form  of  society  is 
popular  sovereignty  behind  the  constitution,  as  distinguished 
from  popular  sovereignty  in  the  constitution.  In  the  lan- 
guage of  Professor  Dicey,  it  is  popular  political  sovereignty 
as  distinguished  from  popular  legal  sovereignty. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  Mr.  Lecky's  conception  of  democracy 
is  not  to  be  identified  too  exactly  with  any  one  of  these  scien- 
tific notions,  although  in  a  general  way  it  corresponds  to  tlie» 


204  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

second.  The  real  subject  of  his  investigation  is  democracy 
as  a  form  of  the  state.  It  is  the  formal  sovereignty  of 
the  people,  expressing  ultimate  decisions  through  universal 
suffrage. 

The  error  in  this  conception  is  of  that  interesting  kind  which 
practical  men  and  historians  habitually  attribute  to  theorists, 
but  which,  in  fact,  is  always  committed  by  the  practical  men 
and  the  historians  themselves,  and  never  by  the  theorists.  It 
consists  in  accepting  an  abstract  formula,  without  limitations 
or  reservations,  as  a  sufficient  account  of  a  concrete  phenome- 
non. The  political  theorist  knows  that  his  three  conceptions 
of  democracy  limit  one  another,  and  that,  corresponding  to 
the  theoretical  limitations,  there  are  in  reality  numberless 
limitations  of  phenomenon  by  phenomenon.  He  knows  that 
democracy  as  a  form  of  the  state  always  tends  to  run  into 
democracy  as  a  form  of  government,  but  never  makes  great 
progress  in  that  direction ;  and  the  reason  for  this  curious 
limitation  he  finds  in  the  infinitely  complex  relations  that 
enter  into  the  constitution  of  democracy  as  a  form  of 
society.  In  short,  he  realizes  that  every  one  of  the  three 
modes  of  democracy  is  conditioned  by  the  other  two. 
Mr.  Lecky,  recognizing  only  one  mode,  depicts  that  one  as 
absolute. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  he  makes  the  fatal  mistake  of  as- 
suming that  in  politics  ultimate  formal  decision  by  the  igno- 
rant many  is  necessarily  equivalent  to  the  rule  of  ignorance. 
In  technical  language,  this  is  the  error  of  confounding  democ- 
racy as  a  form  of  the  state  with  democracy  as  a  form  of  society, 
or,  more  generally,  of  confounding  the  state  organized  in  the 
constitution  with  the  state  behind  the  constitution.  Of  course 
it  is  conceivable  that  the  ignorant  masses  might  not  only  vote, 
but  vote  independently,  endeavouring  actually  to  express,  in 
their  voting,  their  own  ignorant  opinions ;  but  it  is  not  less 
conceivable  that  they  might  defer  to  the  opinions  of  leaders 
wiser  than  themselves.  There  is  no  a  priori  necessity  for 
thinking  that  a  plebiscite  registers  a  really  popular  judgment. 
Tradition,  custom,  imitation,  industrial  conditions,  indefinite 
modes  of  economic  and  social  pressure,  may  conspire  to  make 


THE  DESTINIES  OF  DEMOCRACY  205 

a  popular  election  nothing  more  than  an  indorsement  of  the 
policy  of  a  few  individuals.  Not  only  may  democracy  as  a 
form  of  the  state  coexist  with  aristocracy  as  a  form  of  society, 
but  more  profound  studies  of  sociology  than  have  yet  been 
undertaken  may  one  day  demonstrate  that  the  political  mode 
of  democracy  is  vitally  dependent  upon  certain  non-demo- 
cratic relations  in  the  non-political  modes  of  social  intercourse 
and  organization. 

This  purely  formal  criticism,  however,  must  not  be  allowed 
to  stand  as  a  substitute  for  that  which  is  more  concrete  and 
vital.  What  we  are  most  concerned  to  know  is,  first,  whether 
at  the  present  time  Mr.  Lecky's  imperfect  conception  of  democ- 
racy is  a  true  generalization  of  political  facts  —  whether  non- 
political  society  no  less  than  the  state  has  become  democratic, 
whether  popular  sovereignty  is,  in  fact,  the  rule  of  ignorance ; 
and  secondly,  whether,  if  democracy  is  indeed  at  the  present 
time  a  rule  of  ignorance,  its  tendencies  and  conditions  compel 
us  to  believe  that  it  will  never  be  anything  better. 

Taking  the  concrete  view,  then,  candour  forces  the  frank 
admission  that  Mr.  Lecky  has  sustained  a  serious  indictment 
of  the  political  democracy  of  the  hour.  Stated  in  the  fewest 
words,  the  charge  is  the  old  one — as  old  as  the  "  Politics  "  of 
Aristotle  —  that  democracy  is  not  always  favourable  to  liberty, 
and  that  it  breeds  jobbery,  extravagance,  and  disregard  of  jus- 
tice. To  heighten  the  picture  through  the  device  of  contrast, 
Mr.  Lecky  begins  his  story  with  an  account  of  English  rep- 
resentative government  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Of  this 
preliminary  sketch  it  is  the  critic's  unpleasant  duty  to  say 
that  it  is  not  altogether  truthful.  It  would  be  hard  to  find  in 
political  annals  a  more  extreme  development  of  corruption, 
including  a  more  wanton  debauchery  of  the  civil  service,  than 
England  had  attained  under  her  rotten-borough  Parliamentary 
system  a  century  ago.  This  aspect  of  his  subject  Mr.  Lecky 
touches  very  lightly,  while  he  enlarges  upon  the  merits  of  a 
system  which  brought  into  Parliament  a  great  number  of 
men  of  extraordinary  ability,  which  secured  to  ministries  a 
persistent  support  that  could  be  relied  upon,  which  was  sur- 
rounded by  traditional  reverence,  which  upheld  the  institu- 


206  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

tions  of  property,  religion,  and  civil  liberty,  and  which,  all  in 
all,  "  had  unquestionably  worked  well."  These  merits  of  the 
English  Parliamentary  system  the  framers  of  the  American 
constitution  sought  to  perpetuate  in  that  instrument,  and  on 
this  fact  also  Mr.  Lecky  dwells.  In  theoretical  opposition 
to  this  English  parliamentarism,  which  represented  classes, 
vested  interests,  and  concrete  institutions,  to  the  utter  neg- 
lect of  an  abstract  political  equality,  stood  the  speculative,  oa- 
French,  type  of  democracy,  which  aimed  to  level  all  inequali- 
ties of  privilege  and  of  power  by  giving  to  every  man  one 
vote  and  to  every  vote  the  same  value.  Little  by  little  this 
speculative  democracy  of  Rousseau  has  been  passing  out  of 
the  realm  of  ideas  into  the  world  of  political  facts,  and  inch 
by  inch  it  has  been  conquering  the  ground  once  held  by  the 
Parliamentary  system.  The  second  half  of  Mr.  Lecky's  first 
chapter  is  devoted  to  an  account  of  the  progress  of  democracy 
in  France  and  in  the  United  States  since  1848,  and  to  some 
of  the  more  obvious  consequences,  particularly  the  decreasing 
stability  of  governments  and  the  gigantic  increase  of  taxes 
and  public  debts. 

From  this  sketch  of  his  argument  Mr.  Lecky  passes  at  once 
to  the  several  counts  of  his  indictment.  To  mention  only  the 
more  important  of  these,  they  are  thac  democracy  confiscates 
property^;  Ihat  it  restricts  liberty  in  the  alleged  interests  of 
morality  and  of  the  working  classes  ;3and  that  it  tends  to  give 
the  balance  of  power  in  society  to  the  emotional,  rather  than 
to  the  rational,  elements  of  the  population. 

The  proof  of  confiscation  is  a  record  of  facts  of  very  unequal 
values.  The  meaning  of  the  steady  growth  of  taxation  by 
cruder  and  ever  cruder  methods  and  of  the  reckless  expendi- 
ture of  public  revenues  is  not  to  be  mistaken.  Alike  in 
France,  in  Canada,  in  the  United  States,  and  in  Australia 
public  finance  is  and  has  long  been  a  monstrous  scandal.  But 
the  Irish  land  legislation,  which  Mr.  Lecky  evidently  regards 
as  a  rather  blacker  act  of  governmental  robbery  than  any  other 
which  he  recalls,  will  not  be  admittecl  in  evidence  by  all  among 
his  readers  who  are  in  general  agreement  with  his  opinions. 
It  is  not  absolutely  certain  that  this  legislation  was  not  in 


THE   DESTINIES   OF  DEMOCRACY  207 

essence,  although  in  a  barbarously  crude  form,  an  act  of  long- 
delayed  justice.  Still  less  can  it  be  admitted  that  the  popu- 
larity of  the  single  tax  is  an  evidence  of  a  widespread  desire  to 
confiscate  private  property.  Mr.  George  himself  did  unques- 
tionably in  "  Progress  and  Poverty  "  advocate  the  confiscation 
of  land  values ;  but  it  was  not  until  his  original  proposition 
was  converted  into  the  essentially  different  doctrine  of  the  sin- 
gle tax  that  it  won  many  adherents.  Far  more  telling,  in  the 
charge  against  the  ethics  of  democracy,  are  the  examples  of 
recent  attacks  upon  literary  property.  The  popular  majority 
that  will  not  or  cannot  see  the  justice  of  copyright  laws  has 
no  sense  of  the  moral  grounds  of  property  in  an}'-  form  what- 
soever. The  most  humiliating  examples  of  all,  Mr.  Lecky 
might  have  drawn,  had  he  chosen  to  do  so,  from  the  repu- 
diation of  public  debts  and  from  the  greenback  and  silver 
"crazes"  in  the  United  States. 

That  democracy  is  ready  to  sacrifice  individual  liberty  to 
ends  which  it  believes  that  it  can  attain  directly  through 
restrictive  legislation,  is  not  a  novel  proposition.  Mv. 
Lecky 's  chapters  in  proof  of  it  are  in  substance  not  unlike 
Mr.  Herbert  Spencer's  papers  on  "  The  New  Toryism  "  and 
"  The  Coming  Slavery."  Their  force  is  due  to  their  compre- 
hensiveness and  their  wealth  of  detail.  Even  the  hardened 
reader  of  individualistic  tracts  will  experience  a  new  sensa- 
tion as  he  turns  Mr.  Lecky 's  pages  and  follows  through  one 
continuous  narrative  the  astonishing  story  of  modern  legisla- 
tion against  gambling,  liquor-selling,  cigarette-smoking,  and 
other  modes  of  vice  and  of  the  yet  more  elaborate  legislation 
in  behalf  of  "labour,"  consisting  of  laws  limiting  the  hours 
of  employment,  regulating  the  internal  affairs  of  the  factory 
and  of  the  workshop,  fixing  the  times  and  modes  of  wage  pay- 
ments, prescribing  the  details  of  tenement-house  construction 
and  management,  forbidding  the  competitive  employment  of 
convict  labour  by  the  state,  and  even  fixing  a  minimum  wage 
for  municipal  labourers.  If  any  enthusiastic  believer  in  "  the 
rights  of  man  "  has  supposed  that,  because  in  its  later  develop- 
ments democracy  has  refrained  from  interfering  with  the  indi- 
vidual by  the  murderous  methods  of  the  French  Revolution, 


208  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

it  has  been  any  the  less  disposed  to  regulate  his  life  for  him, 
he  must  be  prepared  to  see  his  illusion  dispelled  when  he 
ventures  to  read  Mr.  Lecky's  pages. 

There  is  one  great  class  of  interests,  however,  in  respect  of 
which  democracy  has  apparently  fought  persistently  and  irre- 
sistibly for  liberty.  Democracy  is  as  hostile  now  as  it  was 
under  the  Directory  to  all  restraints  upon  liberty  imposed  in 
the  name  of  religion  or  by  ecclesiastical  authority.  There  are 
no  more  brilliant  pages  in  Mr.  Lecky's  volumes  than  those  in 
which  he  traces  the  continuous  encroachment  of  the  civil  upon 
the  ecclesiastical  power,  the  extension  of  secular  education, 
the  substitution  of  civil  for  ecclesiastical  marriage,  and  the 
growing  disregard  of  Sunday  laws. 

But,  as  Mr.  Lecky  warns  us,  it  will  not  do  to  become  too 
confident  that  we  discover  here  a  form  of  liberty  that  democ- 
racy will  under  all  circumstances  defend.  There  are  signifi- 
cant limitations.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  not  liberty  as  such 
that  democracy  has  contended  for  in  its  alliance  with  secular- 
ism. Its  real  concern  has  been  to  throttle  a  hostile  power. 
This  has  been  sufficiently  proved  by  the  excessively  illiberal 
dealing  of  French  democracy  with  the  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
especially  in  educational  matters.  Another  and  much  more 
interesting  demonstration,  however,  has  not  escaped  Mr. 
Lecky's  survey.  This  is  found  in  the  history  of  American 
legislation  against  the  Mormon  Church  and  its  institution  of 
polygamy.  Mr.  Lecky  leaves  his  readers  in  no  doubt  that, 
while  he  is  no  apologist  for  either  Mormonism  or  polygamy, 
he  is  unable  to  reconcile  certain  radical  features  of  the  Ed- 
munds Act  with  the  principles  of  the  Federal  Constitution. 
In  the  second  place,  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  has 
undoubtedly  a  much  deeper  sympathy  with  democracy  and 
with  certain  forms  of  socialism  tlian  it  can  possibly  have  with 
a  scheme  of  law  and  government  which  frankly  accepts  the 
principles  of  private  judgment  and  individual  responsibility 
in  affairs  of  conduct,  and  the  policy  of  unrestricted  competi- 
tion in  industry.  The  membership  of  the  Roman  Church 
corresponds  far  more  closely  to  tlie  wage-earning  masses 
than  to  the  business  and  professional  classes.    No  intelligent 


THE   DESTINIES   OF   DEMOCRACY  209 

observer  can  have  followed  the  recent  developments  of  Roman 
Catholic  policy  without  discovering  that  the  church  is  pre- 
paring to  give  up  its  struggle  against  the  forms  of  civil  gov- 
ernment and  to  exercise  its  authority  henceforward  through 
them.  It  has  no  intention  of  surrendering  the  smallest  frac- 
tion of  authority  as  such,  but  it  expects  more  and  more  to 
express  authority  through  a  spiritual  ascendency  in  the  mind 
of  the  voter.  Instinctively  or  rationally  the  Holy  See  has 
discovered  the  true  relation  of  the  state  behind  the  constitu- 
tion to  the  state  within  the  constitution.  Could  there  be  for 
its  purposes  a  better  instrument  than  a  democracy  which  is 
disposed  to  rule  absolutely,  substituting  for  the  authority  of 
a  monarch  by  divine  right,  not  liberty  and  individual  respon- 
sibility, but  the  authority  of  a  majority  by  divine  right  ? 

To  prove  that  democracy  tends  to  give  the  balance  of  power 
in  society  to  the  emotional  rather  than  to  the  intellectual  ele- 
ments of  the  population,  it  would  only  be  necessary  to  show 
that  universal  suffrage  is  in  fact  the  actual  rule,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  more  or  less  mechanical  voting,  of  the 
many.  It  is  the  exceptional  man  whose  conduct  is  con- 
trolled by  reason.  Hardly  less  exceptional  is  the  man  whose 
opinions  are  moulded  by  reason.  The  crowd,  the  mass,  is 
swayed  mainly  by  example  and  by  feeling.  Mr.  Lecky  is 
not  dependent,  however,  upon  this  line  of  proof.  Proof  of 
another  kind  is  ready  to  his  hand,  and  he  does  not  fail 
to  make  the  most  of  it.  The  democratic  movement  has  not 
stopped  at  universal  suffrage  among  men.  It  aims  to  extend 
the  legislative  franchise  to  women  also.  Already  it  has  half 
accomplished  its  purpose.  English  women  enjoy  the  munici- 
pal suffrage,  and  they  believe  that  the  Parliamentary  fran- 
chise is  within  their  grasp.  In  the  United  States  women  of 
Colorado  and  Wj^oraing  vote  for  state  officers,  for  congress- 
men, and  for  presidential  electors.  In  New  Zealand  and  in 
South  Australia  women  vote  in  all  matters  on  a  perfect 
equality  with  men.  Mr.  Lecky's  treatment  of  this  question 
is  eminently  calm  and  judicial.  Most  of  the  alarmist  argu- 
ments against  the  political  activity  of  women  he  sets  aside  as 
puerile  ;  but  there  is  one  which  he  finds  to  be  of  unmistaka- 


210  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ble  force.  He  calls  attention  to  the  passionate  interest  which 
women  have  of  late  been  taking  in  various  "  humane  "  cru- 
sades, including  anti-vivisection,  and  then  says  :  — 

"  There  have  been  ages  in  which  insensibility  to  suffering 
was  the  prevailing  vice  of  public  opinion.  In  our  own  there 
is,  perhaps,  more  to  be  feared  from  wild  gusts  of  unreasoning, 
uncalculating,  hysterical  emotion.  'Les  races,'  as  Buffon 
said,  '  se  feminisent.'  A  due  sense  of  the  proportion  of 
things,  an  habitual  regard  to  the  ultimate  and  distant  conse- 
quences of  political  measures,  a  sound,  sober,  and  unexag- 
gerated  judgment  are  elements  which  already  are  lamentably 
wanting  in  political  life,  and  female  influence  would  certainly 
not  tend  to  increase  them. 

"  Nor  is  it  likely  that  it  would  be  in  the  direction  of  liberty. 
With  women,  even  more  than  m^n,  there  is  a  strong  disposi- 
tion to  overrate  the  curative  powert  of  legislation,  to  attempt 
to  mould  the  lives  of  men  in  all  their  details  by  meddlesome 
or  restraining  laws ;  and  an  increase  of  female  influence  could 
hardly  fail  to  increase  that  habit  of  excessive  legislation  which 
is  one  of  the  great  evils  of  the  time." 

Such  are  some  of  the  consequences  of  democracy  as  a  form 
of  the  state  which  are  now  to  be  observed  in  America  and  in 
Europe.  They  are  not  yet  as  tragic  as  were  the  consequences 
of  democracy  in  Paris  one  hundred  years  ago ;  not  yet  as  gro- 
tesque as  were  the  consequences  of  democracy  in  Athens  in 
the  days  of  Cleon  the  Tanner.  Nevertheless,  in  their  essen- 
tial quality  they  are  not  different.  They  are  undoubtedly 
restrictive  of  liberty ;  they  reveal  a  spirit  of  absolutism ; 
they  are  stamped  with  dishonesty  and  with  folly. 

But  are  these  the  final  consequences  ?  Do  we  yet  see  the 
end  of  the  democratic  movement?  Do  we  know  its  destiny, 
or  can  we,  at  least,  be  sure  that  we  have  discovered  its  per- 
sistent tendencies  ? 

To  frame  a  partial  answer  to  these  questions  we  must  re- 
member that  democracy  has  only  now  begun  to  develop  its 
positive  programme.  Democracy  originates  in  resistance  to 
oppression.  It  is  the  child  of  liberty.  Historically  it  is  al- 
wa3-s  after  the  property-accumulating  middle  classes  succeed 


THE  DESTINIES   OF  DEMOCRACY  211 

in  establishing  the  institutions  of  civil  liberty  that  they  extend 
political  privileges  to  the  wage-earning  multitude.  They  do 
so  partly  because  they  realize  that  their  own  political  rights 
were  forcibly  wrested  from  monarchy  and  nobility,  and  they 
fear  that  they  themselves  may  be  forced  in  turn  to  surrender 
if  they  do  not  make  voluntary  concessions ;  partly  because 
they  have  a  strong  belief  that  the  blessings  of  liberty  are  sa 
obvious  that  men  who  have  once  enjoyed  will  not  curtail 
them ;  but  chiefly  because  the  division  of  the  electorate  into 
parties  has  created  a  powerful  inducement  to  extend  the  suf- 
frage as  a  means  of  increasing  the  voting  strength  of  the 
party  that  happens  to  be  in  power.  Thus  liberty  has  led 
inevitably  to  universal  suffrage.  But  it  has  done  so  only 
because  the  masses  have  suffered  from  wrongs  and  neglects 
that  have  called  for  remedy,  and  because  the  ruling  classes 
have  desired  to  carry  out  policies  that  could  be  accomplished 
only  through  the  political  aad  of  the  masses.  The  student  of 
political  science  will  never  understand  democracy  until  he 
sees  clearly  that  its  origin  is  not  due  to  the  formulation  of 
any  positive  programme  by  the  masses  themselves. 

The  institution  of  universal  suffrage  is,  therefore,  only  the 
first  of  two  historical  stages,  the  second  of  which  we  can  but 
conjecturally  forecast.  The  masses  have  had  political  power 
conferred  upon  them  by  their  political  superiors.  They  have 
associated  it  with  the  rectification  of  wrongs  from  which  they 
have  hitherto  suffered.  Their  political  conceptions,  therefore, 
have  been  almost  wholly  negative.  How  to  use  political  power 
positively  to  further  their  economic  and  moral  well-being,  is 
a  problem  to  which  they  have  only  very  recently  begun  to 
give  earnest  attention.  That  they  are  beginning  to  reflect 
upon  it  is  made  evident  wherever  there  is  a  serious  interest  in 
the  public  school  system,  or  in  questions  of  public  morals  and 
of  public  health. 

It  is  therefore  too  soon  to  say  that  democracy  must  con- 
tinue to  be  the  rule  of  ignorance.  That  it  may  so  continue, 
is  not  to  be  denied.  But  there  are  two  possibilities  of  better 
things,  to  each  of  which  attention  must  now  briefly  be  given. 
It  is  possible,  first,  that  the  masses,  in  attempting  to  formulate 


212  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

a  positive  programme  for  the  use  of  their  power  in  further- 
ance of  their  own  well-being,  will  speedily  learn  the  great 
lesson  which  the  middle  classes  learned  some  hundreds 
of  years  ago.  That  lesson  is,  that  the  only  way  in  which 
political  power  can  be  made  to  further  the  well-being  of  a  com- 
munity or  of  a  class  is  through  the  establishment  and  the  main- 
tenance of  civil  liberty.  Experience  has  over  and  over  again 
demonstrated- — it  will  infallibly  continue  to  demonstrate  — 
that  a  high  degree  of  material  prosperity  can  be  attained  only 
through  freedom  of  enterprise  and  of  organization,  and  that 
the  highest  type  of  personality  can  be  developed  only  through 
intellectual  liberty  and  individual  responsibility.  The  middle- 
class  civilization  that  Mr.  Lecky  so  ardently  admires  has  been 
developed  because  the  middle  classes  perceived  that  liberty 
was  the  one  means  through  which  they  could  utilize  their 
power  in  the  creation  of  wealth,  art,  science,  and  moral  order. 
In  the  development  of  the  internal  policy  of  the  great  labour 
organizations  there  are  signs  that  the  wage  earners  are  learn- 
ing the  truth,  that  whether  or  not  liberty  is,  as  Proudhon 
said  "  not  the  daughter  but  the  mother  of  order,"  she  is  at  any 
rate  the  mother  of  progress.  If  this  truth  becomes  a  popular 
conviction,  the  democracy  of  the  twentieth  and  twenty-first 
centuries  will  be  very  different  from  that  of  the  eighteenth 
and  nineteenth  centuries. 

The  second  possibility  is  that  the  voting  masses  will  follow 
a  rational  guidance.  Whatever  the  form  of  the  state  that  is 
organized  in  the  constitution,  the  state  behind  the  constitution 
can  never  be  absolutely  democratic.  This  is  the  explanation 
of  phenomena  that  have  puzzled  the  theorists  and  the  his- 
torians for  many  centuries.  It  is  conceivable,  though  not 
probable,  that  the  industrial  organization  of  society,  like  the 
political  electorate,  may  become  altogether  democratic.  Coop- 
erative associations  may  displace  the  entrepreneur.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  all  the  minor  forms  of  association  also  may  become 
wholly  democratic.  But  never,  by  any  possibility,  can 
democracy  establish  itself  within  the  cultural  organization. 
Differences  of  mental  ability  and  of  moral  power  will  ahvays 
exist  among  men  ;   and  by  a  law  that  is  as  absolute  in  the 


THE   DESTINIES  OF   DEMOCRACY  213 

realm  of  mind  as  the  law  of  gravitation  is  in  the  physical 
world,  inferior  men  will  continue  to  defer  to  their  superiors, 
to  believe  dicta  instead  of  thinking  propositions,  and  to  imi- 
tate examples  instead  of  originating  them.  This  is  why  the 
democracy  that  has  rebelled  against  the  traditional  modes 
or  forms  of  authority,  and  has  become  distrustful  of  the 
leadership  of  cultivated  men,  invariably  evolves  that  most 
preposterous  and  contemptible  of  potentates,  the  "boss." 
Leadership  of  some  kind  men  must  and  will  have. 

The  destinies  of  political  democracy  will,  therefore,  be  de- 
termined ultimately  by  the  character  of  the  aristocracy  that 
rules  the  state  behind  the  constitution.  The  ignorant  masses 
of  Mr.  Lecky's  formula  will  not  rule  through  their  ignorance.  U/ 
They  will  rule  through  their  deference  to  great  humbugs, 
great  scoundrels,  great  priests,  or  great  men.  At  present 
they  rule  through  their  deference  to  the  great  humbugs  and 
the  great  scoundrels,  and  so  lend  support  to  Mr.  Lecky's  belief 
that  democracy  is  the  rule  of  ignorance,  and  afford  apparent 
justification  of  ]\Ir.  Carlyle's  definition  of  the  people  as  a  cer- 
tain number  of  millions,  mostly  fools.  If  it  could  be  shown 
that  the  "  boss  "  is  a  creation  of  political  democracy,  the  out- 
look would  indeed  be  dark.  But  there  are  many  reasons  for 
believing  that  popular  thought  on  this  question  inverts  the 
order  of  cause  and  effect.  The  "  boss  "  is  probably  not  the 
product  of  democracy.  The  misdeeds  and  follies  of  democ- 
racy are  probably  due  to  the  independent  existence  of  the 
"  boss."  The  "  boss  "  flourishes  and  reigns  because  men  have 
for  the  time  being  lost  their  faith  in  the  true  aristocracy  of 
intellect  and  conscience.  Only  to  the  faint-hearted  and  to 
the  short-sighted  should  there  be  any  need  to  say  that  a  de- 
termined effort  to  restore  that  faith  is  to  be  the  most  moment- 
ous sociological  phenomenon  of  the  next  fifty  years.  The 
initiative  may  be  taken  by  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 
Accepting  democracy  as  the  inevitable  form  of  the  state 
within  the  constitution,  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  fully 
and  deliberately  intends  to  make  itself  again  what  once  it 
was  —  the  ruling  aristocracy  of  the  state  behind  the  con- 
stitution.    If  this  purpose  becomes  more  and  more  obvious, 


214  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

the  forces  of  Protestantism  will  again  be  roused  to  intense 
activity.  The  principles  of  liberty  and  of  individual  respon- 
sibility will  again  be  opposed  to  the  principle  of  authority 
and  will  again  fascinate  the  minds  of  rationalistic  men. 

In  all  probability,  therefore,  the  destiny  of  democracy  is  to 
be  controlled  either  by  religious  authority  or  by  a  much  more 
earnest  and  thoughtful  type  of  Protestant  liberalism  than  that 
which  prevails  to-day.  In  a  struggle  between  these  forces 
men  of  all  ranks  and  conditions,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the 
learned  and  the  unlearned,  will  give  their  allegiance  to  worthy 
leaders.  The  "  boss  "  with  his  deeds  of  ignorance  and  of  evil 
will  sink  into  oblivion.  It  should  be  needless  to  add  that  such 
a  struggle,  if  it  comes,  will  be  a  contest  of  ideas.  The  church 
that  seeks  to  rule  through  democracy  is  of  necessity  an  en- 
lightened church,  controlled  by  men  of  pure  and  lofty  aims, 
to  whom  the  imbecilities  of  A.  P.  A.-ism  are  an  idle  wind  that 
they  regard  not.  For  those,  however,  who  understand  the 
true  significance  of  such  a  struggle,  there  should  be  no  diffi- 
culty in  forming  an  opinion  upon  the  wisdom  of  further  ex- 
tending democracy  within  the  constitution  by  including  women 
within  the  electorate.  If  we  believe  that  salvation  lies  in  au- 
thority, let  us  by  all  means  give  the  ballot  to  that  half  of  the 
population  which  instinctively  associates  all  hard-headedness 
with  spiritual  untowardness.  But  if  we  value  freedom  of  con- 
tract and  of  organization,  the  right  of  private  judgment  and 
individual  responsibility,  let  us  not  advocate  woman  suffrage 
until  we  are  convinced  that  through  education  and  a  broad- 
ened experience  of  the  world  women  in  general  have  sub- 
ordinated emotion  to  judgme»t,  and  that  good  women  in 
particular  have  emancipated  themselves  from  the  evil  belief 
of  moral  and  political  absolutism  —  that  the  end  justifies  the 
means. 


XIII 

THE   RELATION   OF    SOCIAL   DEMOCRACY  TO 
HIGHER  EDUCATION 


XIII 


THE  RELATION  OF  SOCIAL  DEMOCRACY  TO  THE 
HIGHER  EDUCATION 

A  USEFUL  tradition  decrees  that  Commencement  Day  ad- 
dresses shall  deal  with  the  relations  of  education  to  life. 
On  other  occasions  we  may  discuss  educational  measures,  or 
methods,  or  the  conflicting  claims  of  subjects,  from  a  pro- 
fessorial or  scholastic  point  of  view.  In  our  classrooms  we 
may  present  knowledge  in  its  own  name  and  right,  recogniz- 
ing that  its  claim  is  sufficient,  and  for  the  time  being  supreme, 
if  it  appeals  to  the  pure  intelligence  alone.  But  when  our 
students  have  completed  the  tasks  and  sustained  the  tests 
that  we  have  appointed  for  them ;  when  we  see  them  about 
to  enter  upon  that  long  and  difficult  graduate  course  in  which 
"  elective  "  studies  bear  a  painfully  small  proportion  to  those 
that  are  "  required,"  in  which  "  cuts  "  can  never  be  made  up, 
and  "conditions"  can  never  be  passed  off;  when  we  are 
reminded  how  far  the  swiftly  passing  years  have  borne  our- 
selves beyond  the  scenes,  the  standards,  and  perhaps  beyond 
the  ambitions  even,  of  our  college  days,  into  which  we  look 
back  now  as  into  some  half-strange  other  world,  —  then  for 
the  moment  we  see  all  the  work  of  education  in  its  due  pro- 
portions and  relations ;  we  feel  the  vital  flow  of  those  strong 
spiritual  currents  that  move  forever  from  ideals  to  affairs, 
from  affairs  to  ideals,  refreshing  and  strengthening  the  intel- 
lectual life,  while  they  broaden  also,  and  deepen,  its  practical 
basis. 

It  is  well  that  we  do  thus  return  so  often  to  this  outlook 
upon  the  broader  view,  and  that  we  experience  from  time  to 
time  the  access  of  a  deeper  inspiration.  They  are  needful  for 
the  college  and  useful  to  the  community.    They  keep  educa- 

217 


218  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

tional  methods  in  touch  with  the  world,  and  the  world  in 
sympathy  with  educational  aims. 

But  the  point  of  contact  between  education  and  life  moves 
somewhat  from  year  to  year.  The  demands  that  intellectual 
interests  may  rightly  make  upon  the  public,  are  not  the  same 
at  all  times.  The  public  duty  of  the  cultivated  man  or  woman 
assumes  one  or  another  phase  with  changing  conditions  of 
politics,  business,  and  morality.  In  those  fateful  years  when 
the  struggle  for  human  liberty  and  national  integrity  was  at  its 
height,  the  supreme  obligation  of  every  man  whose  sympathies 
had  been  broadened  by  liberal  study  was  to  contribute  of  his 
sincerest  thought  to  the  enlightenment  of  the  public  mind. 
There  is  no  need  to  tell  how  nobly  that  obligation  was  fulfilled ; 
how  from  Harvard  and  from  Yale,  and  from  every  smaller 
college  in  the  land,  went  forth  an  influence  which  demon- 
strated that  in  America  now,  as  in  the  Puritan  England  of 
John  Milton's  day,  "the  finest  scholarship  is  but  a  single 
grace  of  the  man."  At  a  later  time,  when  a  reunited  nation 
began  to  bend  all  its  energies  to  the  development  of  its  ma- 
terial resources,  and  to  demand  that  instruction  should  break 
away  from  a  too  slavish  adherence  to  the  traditional  curricu- 
lum of  Latin,  Greek,  and  mathematics,  it  became  the  duty  of 
educated  men  to  examine  that  demand  upon  its  merits,  and  to 
make  the  provision  for  scientific  and  technical  training  which 
seemed  to  be  required  by  our  expanding  life.  The  result  we 
enjoy  in  a  multitude  of  well-equipped  scientific  schools,  and 
in  a  reconstruction  of  college  courses  which  has  left  but  little 
for  the  boldest  innovator  to  desire  more.  Somewhat  later 
still,  and  largely  in  consequence  of  the  progress  of  scientific 
thought,  the  educational  world  has  been  agitated  over  the 
question  of  liberty  of  teaching.  It  has  been  the  duty  of  men 
who  have  learned  the  difference  between  a  belief  that  is 
founded  on  evidence  and  one  that  is  founded  on  a  complete 
absence  of  evidence  of  any  kind,  to  insist  that  the  difference 
between  the  two  shall  be  so  far  explained  that  rational  human 
beings  can  choose  between  them.  The  insistence  has  not 
been  always  a  pleasure ;  it  has  called  for  courage  and  for 
self-sacrifice ;  for  one  does  not  easily  maintain  serene  his  faith 


EELATION  OF  DEMOCRACY  TO   HIGHER  EDUCATION      219 

in  the  ultimate  supremacy  of  truth  when  the  moral  insurance 
agents  of  society  agree  to  regard  truth-seeking  as  an  extra- 
hazardous occupation.  There  are  cheerful  optimists  among 
us  who  are  confident  that  this  struggle  for  the  liberty  of 
teaching  is  practically  ended  now,  and  that  we  have  little 
to  fear  henceforth  from  any  quarter.  The  world  has  grown 
very  tolerant,  they  tell  us ;  the  arras  are  stacked  and  the  ban- 
ners furled.  I  wish  that  I  could  share  their  conviction ;  but 
as  I  look  over  the  past  and  see  that  the  great  tragedy  of 
human  history  has  been  an  uncomplaining  going  down  into 
the  darkness  of  men  whose  one  hunger  and  cry  has  been  for 
more  light,  I  am  unable  to  believe  that  the  last  act  of  this 
tragedy  has  yet  been  played.  I  am  sure  that  the  men  and 
women  who  discover  new  truth  in  the  coming  years,  and  en- 
deavour to  give  it  freely  to  mankind,  will  still  need  all  their 
courage  and  all  their  faith :  — 

"  The  age  in  which  they  live 
"Will  not  forgive 

The  splendour  of  the  everlasting  light 
That  makes  their  foreheads  bright, 
Nor  the  sublime  forerunning  of  their  time." 

But,  at  whatever  cost,  the  scholar  who  keeps  in  touch  with 
life  will  be  faithful  to  all  of  these  duties.  We  need  entertain 
no  doubt  of  his  patriotism,  or  of  his  open-minded  hospitality 
to  new  studies  that  are  of  genuine  value,  or  of  his  loyalty  to 
truth.  But  just  because  these  obligations  have  been  most 
scrupulously  fulfilled  in  the  past,  educated  men  and  women 
are  confronted  at  the  present  moment  with  questions  of  prac- 
tical duty  that  are  immeasurably  more  difficult  than  an}^  that 
they  have  had  to  deal  with  hitherto.  It  is  to  these  that  I 
will  now  for  a  very  few  moments  ask  your  attention. 

"  The  nineteenth  century  will  be  the  riddle  of  history," 
wrote  our  most  gifted  historian,  Francis  Parkman,  fifteen 
years  ago.  The  subject  under  discussion  was  the  further 
extension  of  the  suffrage.  Parkman  profoundly  distrusted 
all  radical  types  of  democracy.  Few  men  have  seen  so  clearly 
or  understood  so  sympathetically  as  he  did  the  conditions  and 
the  influences  that  must  combine  for  the  production  of  national 


220  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

character,  and  no  man  has  believed  more  thoroughly  in  Mat- 
thew Arnold's  doctrine  that  salvation  must  come  from  the 
remnant  that  has  not  bowed  before  the  idols  of  the  Philistines. 
He  thought  that  the  nineteenth  century  would  be  the  riddle 
of  history,  because  in  its  universal  activity  every  current  of 
reaction  seems  to  have  mingled  with  the  currents  of  progress 
in  a  mad  swirl  of  universal  restlessness.  The  most  violent 
and  dangerous  of  these  contradictions  he  pithily  described  as 
that  of  denouncing  medisevalism  while  borrowing  its  rusty 
tools  to  build  a  new  order  of  things. 

Never  did  words  more  perfectly  characterize  any  human 
interest  than  these  words  characterize  the  movement  that  is 
called  Social  Democracy,  or  Socialism.  Socialism  is  literally, 
in  general  and  in  particular,  a  denouncing  of  medisevalisra 
and  a  borrowing  of  its  rusty  tools  to  build  a  new  order  of 
things.  It  is  an  attempt  to  emancipate  everybody  by  shac- 
kling every  individual  arm.  But  its  inherent  absurdity  no 
more  prevents  its  popularity  than  the  absurdity  of  trying  to 
make  a  man  believe  what  he  did  not  believe  prevented  the 
popularity  of  the  Inquisition.  Social  Democracy,  it  may  as 
well  be  understood,  is  no  longer  a  project,  a  plan,  an  "  ism," 
merely.  It  is  a  fact.  It  is  already  established,  and  we  have 
to  adapt  ourselves  to  it  as  best  we  can.  By  this  I  mean  that 
its  chief  demand  has  been  conceded,  and  that  its  chief  method 
has  been  accepted.  The  method  is  that  of  compelling  every- 
body to  meddle  with  everything  that  is  none  of  his  business, 
and  of  forbidding  him,  under  any  circumstances,  to  mind  his 
own  business.  The  demand  is  that  the  state,  the  church,  and 
the  university  shall  more  and  more  shape  their  activities  with 
reference  to  the  supposed  interests  of  the  poor  and  the  igno- 
rant, and  that,  in  doing  this,  they  shall  be  governed  by  the 
advice  of  the  poor  and  the  ignorant  themselves.  One  could 
make  no  greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  that  the  true  social 
democrat  would  be  satisfied  if  land  and  capital  and  the  man- 
agement of  industry  were  made  over  to  the  government. 
The  socialist  desires  these  transfers  only  on  condition  that 
the  proletariat  shall  be  the  government.  To  what  extent  the 
forms  of  industry  and  the  state  are  to  be  modified  by  social- 


RELATION  OF  DEMOCRACY  TO  HIGHER  EDUCATION      221 

istic  legislation  no  one  can  predict,  but  the  substance  has  been 
greatly  affected  already.  At  least  one-half  of  the  members 
of  Congress  never  think  of  asking  what  are  the  characteris- 
tics of  a  sound  monetary  and  banking  system  ;  they  ask  what 
sort  of  money  and  what  kind  of  banks  the  Knights  of  Labor 
and  the  Farmers'  Alliance  are  demanding.  Not  a  winter  goes 
by  in  which  our  various  state  legislatures  do  not  enact  num- 
bers of  distinctly  socialistic  statutes.  The  London  County 
Council  is  socialistic  through  and  through,  and  the  British 
House  of  Commons  but  little  less  so.  Nor  is  it  only  the  prole- 
tarian voter  and  the  temporizing  politician  who  are  contribu- 
ting to  these  results.  The  younger  clergymen  in  this  country, 
as  in  England,  in  ceasing  to  be  theologians  have  gone  over 
in  large  numbers  to  socialism.  The  literary  class  also,  to  a  con- 
siderable extent,  is  socialistic  in  a  sentimental,  superficial  way. 

In  stating  these  facts,  I  am  not  preparing  you  for  the  ques- 
tion whether  educated  men  and  women  ought  to  bestir  them- 
selves to  resist  a  movement  which  has  made  such  headway, 
or  whether  they  ought  to  take  part  in  it  and  endeavour  in  some 
measure  to  guide  it.  This  is  not  the  place  to  discuss  the  fal- 
lacies of  the  socialistic  programme  or  to  dwell  on  the  dangers 
that  it  threatens.  I  wish  to  ask  you  to  begin  to  think  upon 
the  question  which  I  am  sure  will  soon  force  itself  upon  your 
attention :  What  effect  may  we  expect  the  social-democratic 
movement  to  have  upon  the  higher  education,  and,  in  view  of 
this  movement,  what  is  the  great  educational  work  or  duty  of 
the  hour  ?  What  will  social  democracy  do  for  philosophy, 
for  the  research  that  promises  no  material  rewards,  for  intel- 
lectual and  artistic  beauty,  for  idealism  of  life?  Or  ought 
we  to  say  that  the  time  for  these  questions  has  gone  by 
already,  and  that  these  things  can  no  longer  be  looked  upon 
as  the  chief  concern  of  life  ?  Has  the  time  come  for  renuncia- 
tion ?  Will  the  educated  class  now  do  its  true  part  in  society 
by  subordinating  intellect  to  sympathy  ?  Should  it  give  it- 
self unreservedly  to  the  work  of  popularizing  the  knowledge 
that  we  now  possess  ? 

I  think  that  we  can  discern  a  tendency  in  our  universities, 
as  elsewhere,  to  exalt  the  popular  claim.     The  ethical  spirit 


222  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

is  strong  among  us.  Those  who  believe  that  pure  scholar- 
ship is  quite  as  important  as  missionary  zeal  are  in  some 
danger  of  finding  themselves  disapproved  by  public  opinion, 
and  left  without  material  support.  If  they  expect  to  main- 
tain themselves  against  a  majority  that  threatens  to  become 
larger  and  more  insistent,  they  will  have  to  assert  themselves 
with  spirit. 

I  know  that  thinkers  whose  opinion  is  entitled  to  respect 
believe  that  social  democracy  will  exalt  intellect  and  purify 
art.  They  believe  that  a  greater  approach  toward  equality 
of  material  comfort  will  temper  the  lust  of  wealth  and  turn 
the  thoughts  of  men  to  the  limitless  satisfactions  of  beauty 
and  of  truth.  They  ask  how  either  -beauty  or  truth  can 
flourish  in  a  world  where  an  extravagance  as  vulgar  as  it 
is  heartless  elbows  misery  at  every  turn.  Writers  of  the 
most  exquisite  perceptions,  like  Ruskin  and  Morris,  never 
weary  of  telling  us  that  immortal  genius  must  keep  fresh 
and  pure  its  sympathy  with  humble  life.  Genius,  they  re- 
mind us,  is  too  often  born  in  humble  life  to  permit  us  to 
doubt  that,  among  those  whom  we  often  too  hastily  class  as 
the  ignorant,  there .  are  germs  of  appreciation  of  all  that 
is  best  in  the  human  soul.  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  starving  in 
the  streets  of  Florence,  and  watching  people's  faces  to  know 
who  would  fling  the  half-stripped  grape  bunch  he  desired, 
till  "  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike,"  and  he  could 
paint  life's  flash  and  then  add  soul,  we  may  easily  conceive 
to  be  a  type  of  the  talent  that  cultivated  socialistic  writers 
would  expect  social  democracy  to  rescue  from  oblivion. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  this  way  of  thinking  is  by  no 
means  strange  to  the  American  mind,  and  that  it  seems  to 
have  been  a  natural  one  to  our  English  ancestors  in  earlier 
centuries.  It  is  well  to  remember,  too,  that  it  has  had  a 
large  measure  of  justification  in  fact.  We  ought  not  to  forget 
that  the  Elizabethan  era,  so  magnificent  in  literature,  was  one 
in  which  the  keenest  interest  was  felt  in  the  extension  of 
educational  opportunity  to  all  who  could  profit  thereby.  Dur- 
ing Elizabeth's  reign  no  less  than  one  hundred  and  thirty-eight 
grammar  schools  were  founded  in  England,  including  Upping- 


RELATION   OF   DEMOCRACY   TO    HIGHER    EDUCATION       223 

ham  and  Cheltenham,  Harrow  and  Rugby,  which  were  open 
to  sons  of  yeoman  and  peasant,  if  apt  in  learning,  as  to  the 
sons  of  gentlemen ;  that  all  who  were  able  might  be  trained 
to  serve  God  in  church  and  state.  Again,  the  age  of  Puritan- 
ism, with  its  Milton  to  uphold  the  highest  standards  of  ideal- 
ism while  he  fought  magnificently  for  intellectual  freedom, 
was  the  age  in  which  educational  advantages  were  still  further 
extended  to  the  poor  through  the  founding  of  charity  schools. 
It  was  then,  too,  that  for  the  first  time  school  privileges  were 
offered  to  girls,  for  until  then  girls  were  not  expected  to  serve 
God  in  church  and  state,  and  grammar  schools  were  exclu- 
sively for  boys. 

Likewise  in  the  American  colonies,  the  feeling  was  strong 
that  if  intellectual  and  religious  interests  were  to  be  sustained 
at  all  in  the  new  world,  education  must  be  general.  "  To  the 
end  that  learning  may  not  be  buried  in  the  graves  of  our 
forefathers,"  was  the  significant  preamble  of  the  great  Puritan 
ordinance  of  1647  which  ordered  "  that  every  township  after 
the  Lord  hath  increased  them  to  the  number  of  fift}^  house- 
holders shall  appoint  one  to  teach  all  children  to  read  and 
write ;  and  where  any  town  shall  increase  to  the  number  of 
one  hundred  families  they  shall  set  up  a  grammar  school,  the 
masters  thereof  being  able  to  instruct  youth  so  far  as  they 
may  be  fitted  for  the  university." 

No  one  who  realizes  how  vitally  all  human  interests  are 
bound  together  can  be  insensible  to  the  importance  of  passing 
on  to  the  people  the  results  of  special  study.  Not  only  does 
the  ethical  desire  to  enable  the  masses  of  mankind  to  share  in 
the  gains  of  progress  require  this,  but,  as  I  have  said,  it  is 
necessary  for  the  security  of  the  student  himself.  But  it 
is  one  thing  to  stand  superior  to  those  whom  you  wish  to 
instruct,  and  to  insist  that  what  they  receive  shall  be  know- 
ledge that  is  genuine,  discipline  that  is  real,  cultivation  that 
bears  the  stamp  of  refinement,  stimulation  that  improves  the 
whole  moral  tone  of  life ;  it  is  another  thing  to  be  so  carried 
away  by  the  desire  to  popularize  knowledge  that  you  in- 
sensibly pass  over  to  the  point  of  view  of  those  whom  you 
wish  to  improve,   and,  adapting   your   standards    to  theirs, 


224  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

begin  to  emasculate  your  teaching,  in  the  hope  of  making  it 
thereby  more  acceptable  to  the  multitude.  The  men  who 
founded  grammar  schools  in  Elizabethan  days,  and  those  who 
established  the  common-school  system  of  New  England,  had 
no  thought,  we  may  be  sure,  of  asking  the  artisan's  apprentice 
or  the  labourer's  son  what  sort  of  things  he  would  like  to  have 
taught  him.  They  did  not  submit  the  question  of  what  know- 
ledge is  of  most  worth  to  a  majority  vote  under  universal 
suffrage.  But  to-day  popular  instruction  does  undoubtedly 
borrow  its  standards  and  take  its  tone  from  the  thinking  of  the 
uninstructed,  whose  tastes  are  unformed,  and  whose  critical 
faculty  has  never  been  called  into  play.  The  newspaper  is 
written  avowedly  for  the  men  and  women  who  want  news 
rather  than  ideas,  and  sensation  rather  than  information.  Our 
magazines  are  clever  rather  than  fine  in  their  quality.  True 
dramatic  art  is  made  to  give  way  to  the  amusing  and  the 
spectacular. 

It  is  impossible  to  look  about  us  and  not  see  that  in  popular 
education,  using  the  term  in  a  broad  sense,  there  is  already 
far  more  zeal  than  judgment,  far  more  catering  to  the  prefer- 
ences of  the  ignorant  than  stiff  insistence  that  the  ignorant 
shall  be  taught  the  things  that  it  would  be  worth  their  while 
to  know.  And  that  this  subserviency  of  the  high  to  the  low 
will  increase  as  the  years  go  by  is  the  great  danger  that  I  fear 
from  the  further  success  of  the  social-democratic  movement. 
I  cannot  see  that  we  are  lacking  in  sincere  willingness  to  carry 
light  to  those  who  sit  in  scientific  darkness.  I  do  not  believe 
that  the  scholarship  of  to-day  is  narrow  or  exclusive.  I  will 
not  admit  that  he  who  lives  the  true  intellectual  life  is  one 
whit  less  sympathetic  with  his  fellow-men  who  earn  their  bread 
by  manual  labour  than  is  the  professional  reformer  who  pro- 
claims his  sympathy  from  the  housetops.  On  the  contrary,  I 
fear  that  the  greatest  danger  which  threatens  the  labourer,  and 
not  the  labourer  only,  but  our  country,  is  a  surrender  of  the 
intellectual  career  by  gifted  men  and  women  in  the  mistaken 
conviction  that  devotion  to  mere  scholarship  is  a  selfish  and 
exclusive  aim,  and  that  they  ought  to  find  ways  to  em- 
ploy their  powers  wliich  will  bring  them  into  more  immedi- 


RELATION  OF  DEMOCRACY  TO   HIGHER  EDUCATION      225 

ate  contact  with  wrongs  to  be  righted,  or  suffering  to  be 
relieved. 

If,  then,  you  who  are  about  to  go  out  from  the  college  class- 
room into  the  life  for  which  you  have  been  preparing,  should 
ask  me  what  in  my  judgment  is  the  chief  duty  of  the  educated 
class  to-day,  I  should  be  unable  to  answer,  as  so  many  earnest 
teachers  for  whose  opinion  I  have  the  most  profound  respect 
are  answering,  that  it  is  to  popularize  learning.  I  should 
have  to  say,  rather,  that  I  am  sure  that  the  greatest  duty  of 
all  is  to  maintain  and  to  raise  the  standards  of  education,  and 
to  insist  that  studies  which  can  never  by  any  possibility  be 
popular,  or  appeal  even  to  any  large  number  of  students,  but 
which  have  demonstrated  their  power  to  enlighten  and  to 
ennoble  those  who  do  pursue  them,  shall  not  be  given  up  in 
obedience  to  popular  clamour,  and  merely  to  make  way  for 
other  things  that  seem  to  be  of  more  immediate  utility.  In 
the  long  run  we  shall  not  help  the  cause  of  public  education 
by  making  concessions.  I  am  unable  to  see  what  is  to  be 
gained  by  carrying  the  forms  and  the  phrases  of  knowledge  to 
those  who  are  unwilling  or  unable  to  acquire  the  substance 
of  knowledge,  and  to  submit  themselves  to  the  discipline  that 
true  cultivation  implies.  Our  first  business  is  to  be  sincere. 
If  we  must  have  university  extension,  our  first  duty  is  to  make 
sure  that  we  have  universities  to  extend. 

Nothing  seems  to  be  easier  than  for  those  who  ought  to 
know  better  to  mistake  the  true  purpose  of  a  college  educa- 
tion. The  college  does  not  exist  chiefly  as  a  means  of  afford- 
ing mental  discipline.  Discipline  quite  as  good,  perhaps,  can 
be  had,  and  has  often  been  obtained,  outside  of  college  walls. 
It  is  not  merely  a  place  in  which  to  acquire  the  contents  of 
books.  Some  of  the  most  brilliant  examinations  that  women 
have  passed  in  recent  years,  as  candidates  for  the  baccalaureate 
and  higher  degrees,  have  been  passed  by  those  who  have  been 
obliged  to  do  most  of  their  studying  outside  of  colleges,  and 
with  little  help  from  instructors  or  lecturers.  Nor  is  the  col- 
lege primarily  an  institution  for  moral  and  religious  training. 
This  function  it  divides  with  the  home  and  the  church. 

But  there  is  one  supreme  work  which  the  college  has  to  do, 

Q 


226  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

for  which  no  other  instrumentality  equally  good  exists.  The 
college  can  enable  those  who  will  enter  sincerely  into  its 
spirit  to  appreciate  the  many-sidedness  of  life,  to  feel  the  con- 
tinuity of  the  present  and  the  future  with  the  past,  to  engage 
with  enthusiasm  in  researches  that  promise  to  reward  us  with 
discoveries  of  truth  hitherto  unknown,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  revere  the  ideals  of  beauty  and  to  cherish  the  immortal 
thoughts  that  have  come  down  to  us  as  a  heritage  of  imper- 
ishable worth  from  other  lands  and  other  days.  The  college 
can  enable  its  students  to  follow  after  utility  and  yet  to  value 
the  ideal.  It  can  do  this  because  its  spirit  is  one  of  liberty 
and  of  inclusion,  because  it  frankly  avows  the  excellence  of 
sound  learning  and  of  true  criticism  apart  from  their  practical 
applications,  because  without  apology  it  proclaims  that  — 

"  If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else, 
You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents." 

Because,  in  short,  it  says  that  true  education  is  no  mere 
analysis  of  things,  but  is  rather,  as  Ruskin  has  so  finely  said, 
"a  grand  assay  of  the  human  soul." 

To  cherish  this  spirit  and  to  defend  this  conception  of  the 
educational  end,  was  never  more  needful  than  now.  Our 
American  life  lacks  balance,  proportion,  and  repose.  We  are 
overwhelmed  with  cares  of  our  own  devising.  We  are  pestered 
by  ingenious,  sometimes  half-brilliant,  cranks.  We  are  made 
unhappy  by  reformers  who  are  common  nuisances  and  com- 
mon scolds.  We  should  demand  that  college  training  make 
the  student  above  all  things  large-minded  and  level-headed. 
We  should  expect  it  to  show  the  man  how  to  keep  alive  his 
enthusiasm,  his  devotion  to  the  highest  ideal  that  has  flashed 
upon  his  vision,  without  becoming  a  zealot  or  a  fanatic ;  to 
show  the  woman  how  to  work  ardently  for  every  worthy  cause 
without  becoming  a  suffragist  or  an  anti-suffragist,  a  prohibi- 
tionist or  an  anti-prohibitionist,  a  vivisectionist  or  an  anti-vivi- 
sectionist,  or  any  other  kind  of  "ist"  or  "ologist  "  or  "freak." 

Let  us  then  accept  it  as  our  duty,  and  as  our  privilege, 
too,  to  cherish  tlie  idealism  of  life.  Let  us  stand  steadfast 
for   intellectual   liberty  and    cultivate   intellectual  courage. 


RELATION  OF  DEMOCRACY  TO   HIGHER  EDUCATION      227 

Let  us  apply  our  courage  in  defending  those  interests  that 
we  know  to  be  of  supreme  concern,  against  those  who,  on  the 
one  hand,  would  call  us  impractical,  and  against  those  who, 
on  the  other  hand,  would  assail  our  motives,  pronouncing  us 
unsympathetic  or  selfish.  "  My  dear  young  woman,"  a  recent 
story-writer  makes  one  of  her  characters  say,  "we  are  not 
living  in  a  poetry  book  bound  with  gilt  edges.  We  are  liv- 
ing in  a  paper-backed  volume  of  prose."  This  is  true ;  but 
have  we  not  had  in  this  country  and  in  recent  years  rather 
too  much  insistence  on  this  particular  kind  of  truth?  Have 
we  not  sacrificed  rather  too  exclusively  at  the  altar  of  the 
commonplace  ?  I  believe  that  it  is  the  duty  of  the  college 
and  of  the  college  graduate  to  make  life  at  least  more  of  a 
poetry  book  than  it  is ;  and  if  that  is  not  possible,  I  confess 
that  I  do  not  quite  see  why  we  should  spend  a  considerable 
part  of  life  in  acquiring  the  college  training.  But  possible  it 
is,  and  upon  college-trained  women  especially  must  rest  the 
duty  of  converting  the  possibility  into  reality.  Mr.  Park- 
man,  in  the  essay  from  which  I  quoted  a  few  moments  ago, 
pointed  out  that  more  and  more  this  work  would  fall  to 
women.  "  It  is  often  and  most  justly  said,"  he  wrote,  "  that 
the  intellectual  growth  of  the  country  bears  no  proportion  to 
its  material  progress.  The  drift  toward  pursuits  called  prac- 
tical is  so  strong  that  it  carries  with  it  nearly  all  the  best 
male  talent.  The  rush  and  whirl  of  business  catches  men  as 
in  a  maelstrom,  and  if  it  sharpens  and  invigorates  some  of 
their  powers,  it  dwarfs  others  and  narrows  the  mental  horizon. 
Women  are  free  from  these  disadvantages.  Many  of  them 
have  abundant  leisure  and  opportunities  of  culture  better 
than  the  best  within  the  reach  of  men  on  this  continent  forty 
years  ago.  Their  sex  is  itself  a  power  if  they  use  it  rightly. 
They  can,  if  they  will,  create  and  maintain  higher  standards 
of  thought  and  purpose,  raise  the  whole  tone  of  national  life, 
and  give  our  civilization  the  fulness  that  it  lacks,  for,  if  they 
raise  themselves,  they  will  infallibly  raise  the  men  with 
them." 

In  this  view  of  the  matter  I  most  sincerely  concur.     To 
"raise  the  whole  tone  of  national  life,  and  give  our  civiliza- 


228  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

tion  the  fulness  that  it  lacks,"  is,  preeminently,  the  duty 
of  the  hour  that  rests  upon  the  graduates  of  colleges  for 
women,  and,  if  so,  then  most  of  all  upon  you,  alumnae  of  Bryn 
Mawr. 

And  do  not  think  that  in  thus  setting  distinctly  before 
yourselves  the  duty  of  upholding  intellectual  standards  and 
of  striving  to  increase  the  beauty  and  the  joy  of  life,  you  are 
neglecting  the  cultivation  of  character.  We  cannot  fix  our 
attention  on  beauty  and  on  truth  without  being  changed 
within  ourselves.  We  cannot  defend  them  against  error  and 
baseness  without  being  ourselves  made  pure  and  strong. 

"The  gods  exact  for  song, 
To  become  what  we  sing." 


XIV 

THE    POPULAR    INSTRUCTION    MOST   NECES- 
SARY IN  A  DEMOCRACY 


XIV 

THE  POPULAR  INSTRUCTION  MOST  NECESSARY 
IN  A  DEMOCRACY 

There  is  an  ancient  book  of  political  wisdom  which  awakens 
the  wonder  of  those  persons  who  turn  its  pages  for  the  first 
time.  More  deeply  still  does  it  amaze  those  who  study  its 
chapters  with  patient  care  and  penetrate  its  more  profound 
meanings.  So  sharply  outlined  are  its  pictures  of  political 
situations  in  a  democratic  community,  so  fresh  and  strong  are 
its  comments  upon  the  political  methods  of  demagogues,  so 
comprehensive  is  its  grasp  of  all  the  known  forms  of  govern- 
ment, and  so  practical  is  its  treatment  of  those  problems  that 
arise  from  the  attempt  to  secure  the  reality  of  good  govern- 
ment under  any  plan  of  organization,  that  we  find  ourselves 
doubting  if  the  author  is  not  one  of  our  contemporaries,  who 
is  portraying  the  actual  politics  of  American  commonwealths 
in  the  closing  years  of  the  nineteenth  Christian  centuty. 

This  ancient  book,  I  need  hardly  take  the  trouble  to  tell 
you,  is  a  political  treatise  that  is  briefly  and  familiarly  known 
as  the  "  Politics  "  of  Aristotle. 

The  reason  why  this  ancient  treatise  appeals  to  us  as  so 
intensely  modern,  is  found  in  the  circumstance  that,  in  a 
measure,  stages  of  social  evolution  are  independent  of  chro- 
nology. As  the  interests  and  habits  of  childhood  were  much 
the  same  in  Thebes  or  in  Athens  that  they  are  in  Boston  or  in 
Chicago ;  so  in  the  lives  of  nations,  the  age  of  tutelage,  dur- 
ing which  the  people  look  to  their  kings  and  priests  for  guid- 
ance, has  had  the  same  social  and  political  character  whether 
it  has  fallen  within  the  period  of  ancient  or  within  that  of 
modern  history.  In  like  manner,  in  all  that  pertains  to  ambi- 
tion and  to  character,  the  years  of  independent  manhood  were 

231 


232  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

the  same  before  the  conquest  of  the  Western  world  by 
Germanic  peoples  that  they  have  been  since  the  race  of  Saxon 
blood  has  overspread  the  world.  Furthermore,  the  period  of 
emancipation  in  the  life  of  nations,  when  the  people  throw 
off  the  domination  of  the  so-called  higher  classes  and  irre- 
trievably commit  themselves  to  the  experiment  of  democracy, 
had  been  realized  in  history  before  the  French  Revolution. 
Athens  had  entered  upon  this  period  of  democractic  experi- 
ment M^ien  Aristotle  wrote ;  and,  in  all  essential  details, 
those  things  which  he  recorded  are  true  of  democratic 
government  in  America  to-day. 

There  is  one  detail  in  particular  to  which  on  this  occasion 
I  desire  to  ask  your  especial  attention  Not  only  does  Aris- 
totle perceive  the  practical  difficulties  of  democratic  politics, 
and  expressly  state  his  judgment  that,  if  it  were  possible  to 
maintain  an  aristocracy  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  namely, 
that  of  the  rule  of  the  virtuous,  the  wise,  the  self-sacrificing, 
and  prudent,  it  would  be  folly  to  contemplate  any  other  form 
of  government ;  not  only  does  he  regretfully  set  aside  this 
preference  as  of  little  practical  importance  because  the  day 
has  forever  passed  in  which  its  realization  was  possible ;  not 
only  does  he  grapple  with  the  question.  How  shall  democratic 
government,  when  it  has  become  inevitable,  be  macle  as  unob- 
iectiona|2]^fli§jjj3aaiijlfi  ?  but,  going  to  the  bottom  of  the  psy- 
cnological  conditions  that  underlie  organization  and  practical 
politics  of  every  sort,  he  addresses  himself  to  the  final  inquiry. 
What  sort  of  education,  what  kind  of  training,  shall  we  main- 
tain in  our  democratic  communities  in  order  that  the  errors 
of  popular  judgment,  the  passion  and  unreason  of  mobs,  shall 
be  as  narrowly  as  possible  restricted  in  action ;  in  order  that, 
as  far  as  possible,  the  masses  of  mankind  shall  be  developed 
into  self-reliant,  self-resjjecting,  calm  thinking,  and  patriotic 
citizens  who,  in  spite  of  the  relative  imperfections  of  democ- 
racies, shall  yet  maintain  a  state  of  which  the  end  is  the  per- 
fection of  the  good  life  ? 

I  ask  your  attention  to  this  detail  of  Aristotle's  work  be- 
cause, while  we  may  still  learn  much  from  his  analysis  of 
political  forms,  from  his  account  of  political  forces,  and  from 


POPULAR  INSTRUCTION  IN  A  DEMOCRACY  233 

his  criticism  of  methods  and  policies,  we  may  perhaps  learn 
even  more  from  his  suggestions  of  educational  means  to  insure 
the  improvement  of  der^ocracies  through  the  discipline  of  the 
mind  and  the  inner  transformation  of  the  soul  of  the  indi- 
vidual citizen. 

On  every  hand  we  see  evidence  that  thoughtful  men  iuxour 
own  democratic-American  society  have  long  realized  the  im- 
portance of  greater  attention  to  this  fundamental  condition 
of  popular  sovereignty.  In  the  earliest  days  of  our  New 
England  commonwealths  there  was  a  profound  conviction  that 
the  public  school  was  of  coordinate  importance  with  the  free- 
men's meeting  in  maintaining  a  democratic  mode  of  political 
activity.  That  conviction  has  spread  throughout  the  nation, 
and  very  few,  if  any,  men  whose  judgment  is  worth  consider- 
ing, would  to-day  question  the  soundness  of  that  belief.  The 
interest  to  which  I  more  especially  refer  is  that  which  is  now 
manifesting  itself  in  attempts  to  supplement  the  work  of  pub- 
lic schools  by  other  forms  of  popular  instruction.  It  is  realized 
that,  because  the  schools  themselves  are  often  imperfect  in 
organization  and  in  methods,  because  a  majority  of  their  pupils 
go  out  from  them  into  money-earning  activities  before  the 
years  of  childhood  are  passed,  the  schools  are  at  best  an  inade- 
quate means  of  preparing  each  successive  generation  for  the 
duties  of  American  citizenship.  We  are  beginning  to  perceive 
how  important  have  been  other  means  of  education,  particu- 
larly the  family,  the  church,  the  public  meeting,  the  Ij'ceum, 
and  the  library.  In  every  large  city  at  the  present  time  and, 
to  some  extent,  in  most  of  the  towns  and  villages,  attempts 
are  being  made  to  stimulate  these  educational  agencies  to 
greater  activity  and  to  supplement  them  by  courses  of  defi- 
nite popular  instruction,  through  university  extension  lectures, 
through  the  clubs  and  classes  that  are  maintained  at  uni- 
versity and  other  social  settlements,  and  through  numerous 
other  means. 

You  will  agree  with  me  that  so  deep  and  widespread  an 
interest  in  the  relation  of  education  to  citizenship,  so  strong 
a  conviction  that  the  continuing  success  of  j)opular  govern- 
ment   depends    upon    a   sound   preparatory  training    of   the 


234  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

citizen,  is  in  itself  a  phenomenon  of  significance.  Surely  we 
need  not  despair  of  the  stability  or  even  of  the  continuing 
improvement  of  democratic  government  as  long  as  the  people 
look  at  it  from  this  point  of  view,  and  show  their  earnest 
determination  to  build  the  state  upon  the  foundations  of  intel- 
ligence and  moral  discipline. 

It  is  important,  however,  that  such  efforts  should  be  wisely 
directed,  and  that  from  time  to  time  we  should  ask  ourselves 
what,  after  all,  are  the  things  that  are  of  vital  necessity  in 
popular  instruction.  Remembering  how  vast  is  the  inertia  of 
ignorance,  how  brief  is  the  time  within  which  we  may  hope  to 
impress  enduring  lessons  upon  the  minds  of  our  fellow-men, 
we  cannot  afford  to  misdirect  our  efforts  or  to  squander  any 
energy  that  may  be  available  for  the  discipline  and  enlighten- 
ment of  the  people.  In  one  sense,  all  knowledge  is  of  price- 
less worth;  and  any  intellectual  or  moral  effort  brings 
reward.  In  another  sense,  however,  knowledge  and  discipline 
are  valuable  in  the  degree  that  they  ensure  the  accomplish- 
ment of  specific  results.  From  the  standpoint  of  democracy, 
some  knowledge  is  better  than  other  knowledge.  Some  in- 
struction is  vital,  while  other  instruction  may  be  neglected. 
Let  us  then  ask  what  instruction  of  the  people  i^  vi tidily  np.nas- 
sary  for  thf?  snpp.p.ss  n^a^r  Amprif-a.n  p.Ypprimpnt.  in  populfiy, 

Here  again  let  us  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  ancient  pages 
of  our  great  philosopher.  In  the  Seventh  Book  of  -the  "  Poli-* 
tics  "  he  says,  "  A  city  can  be  virtuous  only  when  the  citi- 
zens who  have  a  share  in  the  government  are  virtuous,  and  in 
our  state  all  the  citizens  share  in  the  government ;  let  us  then 
inquire  how  a  man  becomes  virtuous."  He  then  continues, 
"There  are  three  things  which  make  men  good  and  virtuous: 
these  are  Nature,  Habit,  Reason,"  and  he  reminds  us  that,  to 
some  extent,  nature  may  be  modified  by  habit  and  to  some  ex-/ 
tent  by  reason.  The  business  of  education,  then,  is  so  to  in- 
struct that  nature  shall  be  kept  vigorous,  alert,  and  brave,  while 
appetite  is  subjected  to  the  control  of  reason.  Since  nature 
is  modified  by  both  habit  and  reason,  it  is  important  to  inquire 
whether  the  training  of  early  life  should  be  chiefly  that  of 


POPULAR  INSTRUCTION  IN  A  DEMOCRACY  235 

reason  or  chiefly  that  of  habit.  Aristotle  sees  that  the  two 
should  accord ;  and  that  when  in  accord,  they  make  the  best 
of  harmonies.  He  firmly  believes  that  reason  is  the  supreme 
thing  in  the  universe  ;  for  he  says,  "  Now  in  men,  reason  and 
mind  are  the  end  toward  which  nature  strives,  so  that  the 
birth  and  moral  discipline  of  the  citizens  ought  to  be  ordered 
with  a  view  to  them."  He  recognizes  that  reason  may  make 
mistakes  and  fail  in  attaining  the  highest  ideal  of  life.  But 
he  reminds  us  that  habit  also  may  fail  in  like  manner.  On 
the  whole,  it  is  the  judgment  of  Aristotle  that  the  education 
of  habit  should  proceed  the  training  in  reason.  "  As  the  soul 
and  body  are  two,  we  see  also  that  there  are  two  parts  of  the 
soul,  the  rational  and  the  irrational,  and  two  corresponding 
states  —  reason  and  appetite.  And  as  the  body  is  prior  in 
order  of  generation  to  the  soul,  so  the  irrational  is  prior 
to  the  rational.  The  proof  is  that  anger  and  will  and 
desire  are  implanted  in  children  from  their  very  birth,  but 
reason  and  understanding  are  developed  as  they  grow  older. 
Wherefore,  the  care  of  the  body  ought  to  precede  that  of 
the  soul,  and  the  training  of  the  appetitive  part  should  fol- 
low ;  none  the  less  our  care  of  it  must  be  for  the  sake  of  the 
reason,  and  our  care  of  the  body  for  the  sake  of  the  soul." 

Accordingly,  Aristotle  first  raises  the  preliminary  question 
of  the  determination  of  the  child's  inherited  nature.  He  dis- 
cusses with  the  utmost  frankness  the  question  of  suitable  and 
unsuitable  marriages,  and  insists  strongly  upon  the  duty  of 
considering  the  probable  offspring  of  any  proposed  union  of 
ma^i  and  woman.  Especially  earnest  is  he  in  deprecating  those 
marriages  of  the  very  young,  which  result  in  enfeebled  consti- 
tutions ;  and  those  marriages  of  valetudinarians,  which  result 
in  the  birth  of  criminals  and  the  mentally  defective.  If  the 
modern  readers  of  Lombroso  and  Havelock  Ellis  wish  to  be 
convinced  that  "there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun,"  let 
them  turn  to  the  sixteenth  chapter  of  the  Seventh  Book  of 
the  "  Politics." 

The  child  having  come  into  the  world  with  his  nature  de- 
termined, -those  disciplines  that  form  character,  subdue  the 
passions,  and  strengthen  the  will  are  next  to  be  considered. 


236  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

Four  forms  of  instruction  are  enumerated  by  Aristotle  as  cus- 
tomary in  the  Athens  of  his  day.  These  are :  first,  reading 
and  writing ;  second,  gymnastic  exercises ;  third,  music ; 
fourth,  drawing.  Of  these,  he  says,  reading,  writing,  and 
drawing  are  regarded  as  useful  for  the  purposes  of  life  in  a 
variety  of  ways ;  and  gymnastic  exercises  are  thought  to  in- 
fuse courage.  Concerning  music,  he  says  that  a  doubt  may 
be  raised ;  but  this  is  because  in  his  day  men  had  begun  to 
cultivate  music  for  the  sake  of  pleasure,  whereas  its  true  value 
must  be  found  in  its  proper  use  in  the  formation  of  character. 
Here  we  have  the  keynote  to  all  that  follows  in  the  discus- 
sion of  this  subject.  Training  of  every  kind,  occupations  and 
amusements  of  every  kind,  are  to  be  estimated  with  refer- 
ence to  their  reaction  upon  the  character  of  the  citizen. 

So  it  happens  that  in  this  treatise  on  education,  by  one  of 
the  greatest  writers  of  any  age,  we  discover  no  further  discus- 
sion of  reading  and  writing,  which  are  passed  by  as  merely  the 
obvious  foundation  of  a  convenient  kind  of  knowledge.  There 
is  nothing  of  that  elaborate  consideration  of  the  disciplinary 
value  of  languages,  mathematics,  natural  sciences,  which  has 
occupied  so  large  a  part  of  modern  educational  theory.  The 
entire  space  which  Aristotle  devotes  to  the  educational  ques- 
tion is  given  to  his  discussion  of  gymnastics  and  music. 

Turning  to  these,  we  again  are  struck  with  the  intense  mod- 
ernness  of  the  views  presented.  Was  it  yesterday  or  two 
thousand  years  ago  that  one  wrote  this  ?  "  The  temperament 
of  an  athlete  is  not  suited  to  the  life  of  a  citizen  or  to  the 
health  or  to  the  procreation  of  children,  any  more  than  is  that 
of  the  valetudinarian  or  exhausted  constitution."  Or  again, 
is  it  in  the  columns  of  the  New  York  Evenmg  Post  or  in 
our  ancient  philosophical  work,  that  we  read  the  following: 
"  Of  those  states  which  in  our  own  day  seem  to  take  the  great- 
est care  of  children,  some  aim  at  ])roducing  in  them  an  ath- 
letic habit,  but  they  only  injure  their  forms  and  stunt  their 
growth.  Although  the  Lacedpcmonians  have  not  fallen  into 
this  mistake,  yet  they  brutalize  their  children  by  laborious 
exercises  which  they  think  will  make  them  courageous.  But 
in  truth,  as  we  have  often  repeated,  education  should  not  be 


POPULAR  INSTRUCTION  IN  A  DEMOCRACY  237 

exclusively  directed  to  this  or  to  any  other  single  end.  And 
even  if  we  suppose  the  Lacedaemonians  to  be  right  in  their 
end,  they  do  not  attain  it.  For  among  barbarians  and  among 
animals,  courage  is  found  associated  not  with  the  greatest 
ferocity,  but  with  a  gentle  and  lion-like  temper." 

Aristotle  has  no  intention,  however,  of  decrying  gymnastic 
exercises.  On  the  contrary,  he  strongly  holds  that  they  should 
be  employed  in  all  education,  and  that  they  should  be  so 
directed  as  to  secure  strength  and  suppleness  of  body,  self- 
control,  and  an  active  disposition.  It  is  that  abuse  which  in 
our  day  has  become  known  as  professionalism,  or,  shall  we 
say,  in  some  instances  as  amateurism,  which  Aristotle  exposes. 
He  even  goes  so  far  as  to  call  in  evidence  the  most  cherished 
of  Grecian  institutions.  "  The  evil  of  excessive  training  in 
early  years,"  he  says,  "is  strikingly  proved  by  the  example 
of  the  Olympic  victors,  for  not  more  than  two  or  three  of 
them  have  gained  a  prize  as  boys  and  as  men."  Their  early 
training  and  sevfj'f^  gymn^gf-iV  PYpi^pjc-po  <^^v.oi-.ofri/i  ^^^^r.;r.  ».^,-,■ 

s^i^jiiiofis.  One  other  popular  fallacy  in  regard  to  exercise  Ar- 
istotle also  exposes.  In  ancient  Greece,  as  in  our  own  day,  it  was 
held  by  many  that  the  brain  worker  should  combine  manual  * 
labour  with  his  intellectual  exertions.  There  were  Tolstois 
then  as  now.  Since  no  man  has  ever  accomplished  more  with 
his  brain  than  Aristotle  did,  his  testimony  is  not  to  be  lightly 
regarded.  "  Men  ought  not  to  labour,"  he  says,  "  at  the  sam^ 
time  with  their  minds  and  their  bodies ;  for  the  two  kinds  of 
labour  are  opposed  to  one  another.  The  labour  of  the  body 
impedes  the  mind,  and  the  labour  of  the  mind  the  body."  / 
On  the  subject  of  music,  as  an  element  in  education,  Aris- 
totle's views  may  be  summed  up  in  two  brief  propositions. 
One  is,  that  all  music  which  is  in  its  nature  exciting  or  vo- 
luptuous, tending  to  inflame  the  passions  or  to  overstimulate 
the  emotions,  is  rigidly  to  be  excluded  from  the  education  of 
children  and  youth ;  while  the  music  which  he  calls  ethical, 
that  is  to  say,  the  music  which  awakens  noble  sentiments, 
heroic  moods,  is  freely  to  be  employed.  The  other  proposi- 
tion is,  that  children  and  youth  are  not  to  sit  passively  and 
enjoy  the  performance  of  paid  professional  musicians.     There 


238  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

must  be  no  cultivation  of  mere  passive  receptivity.  Youth 
are  themselves  to  learn  the  principles  and  art  of  musical 
performance  ;  they  must  acquire  skill  in  the  use  of  the  voice 
and  of  instruments.  In  a  word,  education  in  music  must  be 
an  education  in  serious  activity,  not  in  passive  enjoyment. 

"While  we  unaccountably  fail  to  find  in  Aristotle's  discus- 
sion of  education,  in  its  relation  to  citizenship,  any  suggestion 
as  to  a  direct  training  of  the  reason  —  that  end  toward  which 
nature  strives,  that  highest  faculty  which  must  cooperate 
with  habit  in  moulding  nature  and  restraining  passion  —  we 
discover  in  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  Eighth  Book  a  paren- 
thetical remark  that  when  the  gymnastic  training  of  boyhood 
is  over,  three  years  should  be  spent  in  other  studies ;  and  we 
know  from  Aristotle's  other  writings  that  he  believed  in  se- 
vere intellectual  discipline.  Indeed,  we  cannot  doubt  that 
had  he  chosen  to  discourse  further  on  this  subject,  he  would 
have  insisted  strongly  upon  the  importance  of  logic,  mathe- 
matics, and  philosophical  disputations. 

Is  this,  then,  all  that  the  great  Stagirite  has  to  say  upon 
the  training  of  men  for  membership  of  the  state?  To  en- 
courage children  in  gymnastic  exercises,  but  to  stop  short  of 
excessive  athletic  training ;  to  encourage  them  to  acquire 
musical  skill  in  the  performance  of  ennobling  harmonies,  but 
to  withhold  them  from  enervating  and  voluptuous  pleasure ; 
and,  as  they  grow  older,  to  keep  them  employed  with  intel- 
lectual exercises  —  are  these  the  all-sufficient  principles  of 
educational  preparation  for  the  responsibilities  of  citizenship? 
We  must  answer  that  this  is  substantially  all  that  we  find  in 
Aristotle's  treatment  of  the  subject.  But  before  we  assume 
that  it  is  strangely  inadequate,  let  us  be  sure  that  we  have 
fully  grasped  his  meaning. 

Evidently,  it  was  no  part  of  Aristotle's  purpose  to  enter 
upon  an  exhaustive  discussion  of  educational  details.  He 
wished  rather  to  strike  out  two  or  three  essential  truths  in 
the  fundamental  philosophy  of  the  subject;  and  above  all  — 
as  I  think  we  may  gather  from  a  careful  examination  of  his 
paragraphs  —  to  insist  upon  one  preeminent  truth,  namely, 
that  the  indispensable  training  for  citizenship,  whether  it  be 


POPULAR  INSTRUCTION  IN  A  DEMOCRACY  239 

secured  by  means  of  intellectual,  gymnastic,  musical,  or  other 
exercises,  is  a  discipline  in  the  combined  actimtv  of  the  intellect, 
the  higher  emotions,  and  the  will,  within  the  bounds  of  tem- 
perance and  self-restraint.     T||p  rlpaHljpgf.  ppp]  \n  ]^(^  f^^y'^i'rlarl 

is  an  extreme  of  any  kind  —  either  that  which  exhausts  and 

aibw— — ii— — — — —  ■!■■  I  ..r»ii      M..     .11         II. 1. 1-     II-I...I    II        .1 

distorts  the  bodily  powers  under  the  name  of  athletics,  or 
that  which,  neglecting^  all_  wholesome  ap tjzi tj^  ^w y\^,w rl p^r r 
Ijodv.  mindr-a.n(l  ?^pnl  to  the  enpym^nt  of  any  kind  nf  plpns- 
ure  or  mere  idle  cont^^n^plation.  The  citizen,  in  short,  must 
be  an  active  man ;  a  self-reliant  man,  but  a  calm  and  moderate 
man ;  a  courageous  man,  but  a  gentle  and  peace-loving  man, 
who  will  not  fight  without  cause ;  a  hater  of  sensuality  and 
of  corruption,  but  an  appreciator  of  all  that  is  noble  in  art 
and  in  human  struggle. 

Let  us  now  inquire  what  it  was  that  led  Aristotle  thus  to 
emphasize  the  importance  of  moderation  and  of  an  education 
in  manly  activity,  both  physical  and  mental,  as  a  preparation 
for  citizenship.  In  part,  of  course,  we  must  attribute  his 
teaching  to  the  underlying  principles  of  his  philosophy.  But 
in  part,  we  can,  I  think,  account  for  it  by  his  perfect  insight 
into  the  nature  of  popular  government.  Aristotle  was  indeed 
the  greatest  of  theorists ;  but  he  was  likewise  one  of  the 
shrewdest  judges  of  what  we  call  practical  politics.  His 
theories  grew  out  of  his  observations ;  and  they  formulated 
vital  principles  from  concrete  social  conditions.  Why,  then, 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  observer  of  democratic  institu- 
tions, did  Aristotle  so  strenuously  insist  upon  the  supreme 
importance  of  wholesome  activity,  of  temperance  in  all  things, 
and  of  discipline  in  philosophical  studies  ? 

Tj^e  danjyers  of  democracy  arise  chiefly  from  two  sources. 
''One  is  that  unbridled  emotionalism  which,  in  its  graver 
manifestations,  becomes  the  yiolence  of  mobs  and  of  revolu- 
tions ;  which  arouses  the  fanatical  cruelty  of  the  criminal 
classes,  when  they  have  risen  to  temporary  power  in  days  of 
anarchy ;  which  upholds  the  absolutism  of  the  multitude,  and 
tramples  on  all  rights  of  minorities.  The  second  is  the  decay 
of  character. 

Students  of  political  history  have  long  been  familiar  with 


240  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

the  first  of  these  dangers.  Examples  of  political  frenzy  were 
not  lacking  in  the  contemporary  political  life  of  Greece  in 
Aristotle's  day;  and  they  have  not  been  exhausted  in  the 
horrors  of  later  revolutionary  turmoil.  We  do  not  need  the 
lurid  pages  of  Carlyle  or  the  solemn  warnings  of  Edmund 
Burke  to  deepen  our  dread  of  proletarian  madness.  We 
have  too  often  seen  it  in  the  streets  of  New  York  and  of  San 
Francisco,  in  the  railroad  yards  of  Pittsburg  and  of  Chicago, 
in  the  mining  fields  of  Pennsylvania  and  of  Illinois.  More- 
over, it  is  not  only  the  idle  and  the  mob  that  we  have  thus  to 
fear.  We  have  to  fear  ourselves.  The  possibilities  of  un- 
reason lie  deep  in  our  own  breasts.  Was  it  calm  reason  that 
held  sway  a  few  short  months  ago  when,  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  our  land,  the  cry  of  "  Remember  the 
Maine  !  "  was  passed  from  lip  to  lip  ?  Was  it  government  by 
deliberation  or  was  it  government  by  obsession  that  was  then 
witnessed  in  the  senate  chamber  of  the  United  States  ?  Do 
we  not  know  that  however  expedient  and  righteous  the  war 
with  Spain  may  have  been,  there  was  no  real  discussion  of 
either  expediency  or  morals  until  after  hostilities  were  begun? 
The  second  of  the  dangers  of  democracy,  like  the  first,  was 
not  unperceived  in  the  small  democracies  of  ancient  times ; 
but  its  full  gravity,  like  that  of  the  first,  has  been  revealed 
only  in  modern  days.  It  is  a  danger  far  more  subtle  and  far 
more  likely  to  lead  to  the  complete  subversion  of  popular  in- 
stitutions than  is  any  momentary  outbreak  of  popular  vio- 
lence. In  the  painful  exhibition  of  cowardice  and  dishonour 
that  has  recently  been  seen  in  France,  we  behold  the  really 
disheartening  peril  to  republican  institutions.  Unhappily,  we 
cannot  comfort  ourselves  with  the  thought  that  America  is 
not  France,  and  that  Saxon  integrity  is  a  more  robust  virtue 
than  Gallic  honour.  Our  own  record  is  not  so  clean  that  we 
can  afford  to  waste  our  indignation  in  scorn  of  a  decadent 
race.  Not  onlv  do  we  in  shame  recall  the  briberies  and  dis- 
honest  contracts  that  have  disgraced  our  recent  leg^islative 
history,  but  we  are  obliged  to  face  the  far  more  serious  fact 
that  American  voters  are  not  sufficiently  alive  to  the  impor- 
tance of  a  determined  effort  to  substitute  honour  and  decency 


POPULAR   INSTRUCTION  IN  A  DEMOCRACY  241 

for  the  low  expediences  that  we  have  come  to  regard  as  the 
essentials  of  practical  political  management.  It  is  a  com- 
monplace of  political  conversation  and  of  newspaper  comment 
that  in  all  our  American  cities  the  upright  voters  are  numer- 
ous enough  to  maintain  an  honest  municipal  administration,  if 
they  cared  to  do  it.  We  know  that  New  York  City  need  not 
be  given  over  to  exploitation  by  the  criminal  and  vile,  if  the 
honest  and  pure-minded  citizens  of  that  city  chose  to  combine 
for  the  overthrow  of  a  dangerous  and  degrading  power.  We 
know  that  Chicago  has  business  men  who  bathe  and  pay  their 
debts,  and  that,  if  they  really  wanted  such  a  luxury,  they 
could  have  streets  in  which  it  would  be  possible  to  walk 
without  physical  contamination,  or  danger  of  robbery  by  the 
worst  outlaws  of  two  hemispheres.  We  know  that  the  com- 
monwealth of  Pennsylvania  need  not  be  held  at  the  throat  by 
one  of  the  boldest  criminal  gangs  of  any  land  or  age,  if  her 
business  and  professional  classes  were  really  in  earnest  to 
throw  off  so  degrading  a  bondage. 

The  source  of  all  these  evils,  there  is  no  need  to  argue,  is 
found  in  the  undisputed  fact  that  the  eminently  respectable 
"  average  citizen  "  cares  somewhat  more  for  the  privilege  of 
illegally  obstructing  a  sidewalk  with  his  own  merchandise 
than  for  an  impartial  enforcement  of  all  municipal  ordinances  ; 
somewhat  more  to  obtain  an  irregular  concession  from  the 
Building  Department  or  from  the  Board  of  Health  than  to 
have  the  streets  of  his  city  cleaned  from  physical  filth  and 
cleared  of  vicious  characters.  The  observing  and  informed 
will  hardly  deny  that  but  for  these  moral  conditions,  the 
purification  of  American  state  and  municipal  governments 
might  be  hastened.  The  source  of  evil,  then,  as  I  have  said, 
lies  in  a  certain  infirmity  of  character,  a  certain  failure  to 
place  duty  at  the  forefront  of  our  daily  interests,  an  unwilling- 
ness to  sacrifice  personal  comfort,  convenience,  and  gain  for 
the  public  welfare. 

Let  us,  then,  ask  wherein  lies  the  remedy  for  these  evils  of 
unreason  and  of  moral  imperfection,  in  so  far  as  remedy  can 
be  found  in  any  form  of  popular  instruction.  In  seeking  to 
answer  this  question,  we  shall  do  well  to  remember  Aristotle's 


242  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

distinction  of  those  restraints  that  we  find  in  habit  and  those 
that  we  find  in  reason.  By  both  habit  and  reason,  properly- 
disciplined,  impulse  can  be  restrained  and  character  can  be 
ennobled. 

We  are  not  likely  to  exaggerate  our  indebtedness  as  a  nation 
to  that  Puritan  morality  which,  for  generations,  was  nurtured 
in  New  England  and  from  New  England  has  spread  through- 
out the  forty-five  commonwealths  of  the  present  republic. 
As  all  will  concede,  that  morality  has  been  far  more  a  thing 
of  habit  than  of  precept ;  and  doubtless  it  is  to-day  much  more 
a  matter  of  habit  than  of  reasoned  conviction.  The  unsettling 
effects  of  much  modern  speculation  and  scientific  investigation 
have  appeared  in  the  ethical  theories  that  large  numbers  of 
cultivated  Americans  defend  in  discussion.  But  in  our  con- 
duct, habits  of  an  earlier  time  persist ;  and,  under  the  domi- 
nation of  a  New  England  conscience,  men  make  sacrifices  that 
they  would  not  pretend  to  demand  of  themselves  from  the 
standpoint  of  their  philosophy.  Under  this  domination, 
American  voters  do  now  and  then  honestly  face  their  civic 
duty  and,  for  a  season,  give  time  and  effort  to  correct  a  pub- 
lic wrong  that  has  become  too  scandalous  or  too  threatening. 
Assuredly,  this  fact  has  been  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  the 
relative  success  of  American  democracy,  notwithstanding  the 
corruption  and  the  indifference  that  have  prevented  a  realiza- 
tion of  our  ideals.  We  have,  then,  a  great  historic  object  les- 
son in  the  importance  of  habit  as  a  restraining  influence  in 
democracy,  and  a  great  encouragement  to  hope  for  the  im- 
provement of  our  political  conduct,  if  we  give  sufficient  atten- 
tion to  the  training  of  character  by  habit. 

This  can  be  accomplished  in  various  ways,  but  chiefly,  no 
doubt,  through  the  subtle  power  of  suggestion  and  example 
rather  than  through  an  overzealous  insistence  upon  mere  pre- 
cept. What  form,  then,  shall  this  instruction  by  example 
and  suggestion  take  ?  The  sufficient  and  always  true  answer 
has  been  given  in  Aristotle's  pages.  A  character  manly, 
brave,  self-sacrificing,  sincere,  resolute,  and  yet  temperate, 
calm,  and  self-controlled,  can  be  formed  by  insisting  upon 
active  pursuits,  active  pleasures,  a  thoroughly  wide-awake 


POPULAR  INSTRUCTION  IN  A  DEMOCRACY  24^ 

and  determined  life,  and  upon  an  avoidance  of  those  pleasures 
that  weaken  the  will,  destroy  the  zest  for  intellectual  effort  and 
public  activity,  and  end  at  length  in  sordid  inertia,  if  not  in  sen- 
suality. A  people  can  be  judged  and  its  career  can  be  predicted 
from  the  character  of  its  pleasures,  with  more  accuracy  than 
from  any  other  data.  Always  to  prefer  the  pleasures  of  pas- 
sive receptivity,  of  merely  witnessing  artistic  productions 
however  exquisite  in  themselves,  of  merely  listening  to  sensu- 
ous music,  of  merely  diverting  the  mind  with  daily  news  or 
comminuted  science,  always  to  be,  in  fine, 

"  A  careless  looker-on  and  nothing  more, 
Indifferent  and  amused  but  nothing  more," 

—  this  is  to  touch  but  not  to  smite  the  chord  of  self.  We  read 
to-day  of  the  superiority  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  and  of  the  deca- 
dence of  the  Latin  race ;  and  the  handwriting  of  fate  is  again 
revealed,  as  in  Babylon  of  old,  not  at  sunrise  in  Belshazzar's 
camp,  but  at  midnight  at  his  feast.  A  people  that  idly  sips  its 
cognac  on  the  boulevards  as  it  lightly  takes  a  trifling  part  in 
the  comedie  humaine^  can  only  go  down  in  the  struggle  for 
existence  with  men  who  have  learned  that  happiness,  in  dis- 
tinction from  idle  pleasure,  is  the  satisfaction  that  comes  only 
with  the  tingling  of  the  blood,  when  we  surmount  the  physi- 
cal and  the  moral  obstacles  of  life. 

Turning  now  to  the  training  of  reason,  what  is  the  require- 
ment ?  It  is,  I  think,  that  in  all  popular  instruction  —  by  the 
pulpit,  the  press,  the  platform,  and  the  lyceum  —  the  purely 
intellectual  side  of  human  interests  should  be  grasped  and 
fearlessly  presented.  Here,  again,  our  American  history 
affords  us  an  object  lesson  of  large  proportions  and  signifi- 
cance. The  Puritan  morality  was  one  of  the  influences  that 
insured  the  relative  success  of  American  popular  government. 
The  hard-headedness,  the  practical  rationality,  which  was 
developed  by  the  New  England  controversial  theolog]-  was 
another  factor.  You  will  not  make  the  mistake  of  supposing 
that  I  am  defending  the  New  England  theology,  as  a  system 
of  doctrine,  in  either  its  Calvin istic  or  its  Unitarian  forms,  or 
wishing  that  it  could  again  be  taught  as  a  chief  intellectual 


244  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

material  for  the  American  mind  to  exercise  its  faculties  upon. 
I  do  mean  that  it  was  a  great  thing  for  the  political  as 
for  the  moral  development  of  this  nation  that  the  New  Eng- 
lander  of  earlier  days,  instructed  throughout  the  week  in  the 
rugged  duties  and  denials  of  the  Puritan  morality,  on  Sunday 
heard  a  gospel  of  keenly  argued  and  vigorously  defended 
propositions,  which  admitted  of  debate,  and  which  invariably 
were  debated  in  his  own  mind  and  with  his  own  comrades ; 
and  that  he  did  not  listen  to  a  sentimental  essay,  calculated 
to  touch  only  his  emotions,  or  witness  a  ritualistic  ceremonial, 
appealing  chiefly  to  imagination.  What  men  were  those  who 
once  held  the  attention  of  these  New  England  communities : 
Edwards,  Hopkins,  Bellamy,  Emmons,  Emerson,  Parker, 
Channing,  and  Orville  Dewey !  Do  not  these  names  stand 
for  the  most  original  contributions  to  vigorous  thought  that 
have  been  made  in  the  United  States  ?  These  men  were  not 
callous  to  the  finer  things  of  life.  On  the  contrary,  they  were 
men  of  kindly  natures  and  delicate  sensibilities.  They  were 
endowed  with  not  a  little  of  the  reformer's  zeal.  Especially 
was  this  true  of  the  remorselessly  intellectual  Hopkins,  of  the 
discriminating  Channing,  and  of  the  critical  Dewey,  who  all 
were  leaders  of  the  anti-slavery  agitation  in  the  days  of  its 
inauguration.  And  how  were  these  men  themselves  trained? 
Not  by  any  soft  academic  methods,  much  less  by  any  modern 
system  of  cramming.  In  a  memoir  of  Hopkins  that  is  included 
in  the  collected  edition  of  his  writings,  there  is  a  significant 
account  of  the  Yale  curriculum  of  his  day.  The  study  of 
languages  was  completed  in  the  freshman  year,  and  exer- 
cises in  logic  were  begun.  During  the  second  year,  the  first 
four  mornings  of  every  week  were  given  to  ethics  and  meta- 
physics. The  third  year  was  almost  wholly  devoted  to  phys- 
ics, or  natural  science,  and  the  fourth  to  mathematics.  Here 
was,  indeed,  a  remorseless  system,  and  one  indifferent  enough 
to  all  super-refinements  of  sentiment.  I  should  not  wish  to 
commend  it,  without  reservations ;  but  at  least  it  did  not 
make  scatter-brains,  or  dilettantes,  or  dabblers.  In  later  years, 
President  Woolsey,  writing  of  it,  said:  "By  it  some  of  New 
Encrland's    best   minds    were    formed.      Men  like    Jonathan 


POPULAR  INSTRUCTION  IN  A  DEMOCRACY  245 

Edwards,  Bellamy,  Hopkins,  West,  Smalley,  and  Emmons 
...  do  not  proceed  from  cloistered  retirements,  where  the 
mind  is  wholly  asleep  and  afraid  to  think.  .  .  .  On  the  other 
hand,  an  effect  of  the  modern  system  of  education  or  of 
society,  or  of  both,  is  to  repress  originality  of  thinking,  to 
destroy  individual  peculiarities,  and  to  produce  a  general 
sameness  among  those  who  are  educated." 

Not  only  by  precept,  but  by  that  unconsciously  exerted  in- 
fluence of  example,  preference,  and  emphasis  which  counts 
for  so  much  more,  these  men  created  in  the  New  England 
population  a  keen  intellectual  activity  which  permeated  sec- 
ular no  less  than  religious  interests.  Those  who,  for  their 
Sunday  edification,  listened  to  discourses  upon  the  most  per- 
plexing questions  of  theology,  carried  to  the  town-meeting 
and  to  the  market-place  the  habit  of  argumentative  disputation, 
the  insatiable  desire  to  pry  into  every  question,  to  criticise 
every  proposition  that  did  not  instantly  commend  itself  to 
reason,  and,  in  short,  to  prove  all  things.  Can  we  exaggerate 
the  inestimable  value  of  this  sturdy  intellectual  habit  to  the 
American  people?  Are  we  likely  to  overestimate  the  part 
that  it  has  played  in  preventing  ill-considered  action  in  times 
of  grave  national  peril,  or  its  saving  power  in  helping  the 
people  to  a  sound  decision  at  the  end  of  long  years  of  agita- 
tion of  great  questions  ?  Like  other  peoples,  we  in  America 
have  our  moods  of  impulse,  we  are  subject  to  like  passions 
with  our  brethren  of  other  lands ;  but  more  than  most  nations, 
we  are  an  intellectual,  an  inquiring,  a  reasoning  set  of  men  — 
thanks  largely  to  popular  teaching  by  the  New  England  race 
of  preachers. 

Now  I  wish  to  submit  that  the  time  has  not  passed  when 
we  can  afford  to  substitute  for  this  strong  meat  of  intellect- 
ual discourse  the  watered  milk  of  sentiment,  appreciation, 
and  aesthetic  refinement.  The  more  numerous  our  population 
becomes,  and  the  more  miscellaneous  its  character  with  the 
inflow  of  foreign  elements  from  every  European  land,  the 
more  likely  are  we  to  submerge  true  public  opinion  beneath 
waves  of  emotion,  belief,  and  impulse.  True  public  opinion, 
as  I  have  attempted  in  some  of  my  more  formal  writings  to 


246  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

show,  is  an  intellectual  phenomenon.  It  is  a  rational  like- 
mindedness,  and  is  created  by  argumentative  discussion. 
Public  feeling,  public  sentiment,  the  most  ardent  conviction 
of  belief,  may  exist  with  scarcely  an  admixture  of  real  public 
opinion.  We  can  derive  from  history  and  from  psychology 
no  assurance  that  a  stable  popular  government  can  be  main- 
tained in  a  nation  which  ceases  to  be  hourly  creative  of 
genuine  public  opinion  —  the  fruit  of  rational  discourse.  We 
can  find  in  no  record  of  the  past  any  assurance  that  a  people 
which  uncritically  accepts  every  exciting  proposition  that  is 
uttered,  can  maintain  either  social  order  at  home  or  a  re- 
spected place  among  nations.  The  formation  of  opinion,  as 
distinguished  from  emotional  conviction  or  belief,  begins 
when  some  one  has  the  hardihood  to  doubt,  to  call  for  ex- 
planations, to  insist  upon  proof,  to  be  satisfied  with  nothing 
less  than  a  clear  intellectual  understanding  of  the  problems 
involved.  It  is,  then,  of  vital  necessity  to  preserve  and  to 
nurture  a  habit  that  takes  the  form  of  a  certain  kind  of  scep- 
ticism —  not  the  scepticism  that  ends  in  mere  denial  and  a 
paralysis  of  will,  but  that  which  is  the  instrument  of  a  sincere 
determination  to  know  and  to  face  the  truth.  Perhaps  it  is 
an  unusual  interpretation  of  the  New  England  preaching 
which  sees  in  it  the  most  powerful  propaganda  of  scepticism 
—  in  this  noble  sense  of  the  word  —  which  has  ever  acted 
upon  the  minds  of  men.  Yet  I  believe  that  such  an  interpre- 
tation is  a  strictly  valid  one.  In  scarcely  a  discourse  by 
such  giants  as  Edwards  and  Hopkins,  not  to  speak  of  their 
liberal  co-equals,  Emerson  and  Channing,  is  there  a  failure 
to  admit  the  possibility  of  argumentative  error,  or  hesita- 
tion to  grapple  with  the  hypothetical  antagonist.  Men  did 
not  hear  such  discourses  without  learning  to  carry  the  method 
into  all  their  intellectual  activity.  It  bore  religious  fruit  in 
the  Unitarian  movement,  and  political  fruit  in  the  doctrine  of 
national  sovereignty. 

The  allusion  to  the  scepticism  which  ends  in  mere  denial 
and  paralysis  of  will  is  a  reminder  of  one  further  vitally 
necessary  element  in  popular  teaching,  which  must  now  be 
considered.     The  intellectual  life  is  no  exception  to  the  rule 


POPULAR  INSTRUCTION  IN  A  DEMOCRACY  247 

that  any  mode  of  human  activity  may  become  intemperate 
or  decadent.  The  excess  of  intellectualism  appears  when 
rationality  ceases  to  be  positive,  or  creative,  in  its  aim,  and 
degenerates  into  merely  negative  thinking.  This  is  the  in- 
dubitable truth  that  underlies  a  healthy  popular  repugnance 
to  certain  nerveless  types  of  "  mugwumpery."  In  a  culti- 
vated community  there  always  appears  an  order  of  men  who 
are  so  dissatisfied  with  existing  conditions,  so  intolerant  of 
the  strong  convictions  of  their  fellows,  so  impressed  with  the 
difficulties  of  discovering  the  deeper  truths  of  philosophy  and 
of  life,  that  they  lapse  into  the  moods  of  scorn  and  cynical  in- 
difference. In  the  long  run,  these  moods  —  no  less  surely  than 
sentimentalism  and  sensuality  —  undermine  the  character  of 
individuals  and  destroy  the  nerve  of  nations.  In  the  struggle 
for  existence  intellect  has  been  developed,  not  as  a  substitute 
for,  but  as  the  ally  and  guide  of,  the  motor  processes  of  the 
conscious  organism.  Its  purpose  has  been  to  discover  the 
complexities  of  environing  situations,  in  order  that  a  truer  ad- 
justment may  be  made  to  them.  Intellect  apart  from  purpose 
and  positive  conduct  is  an  anomaly  in  nature  —  as  surely  a 
mode  of  degeneration  as  is  the  lapse  into  a  sentimental  form 
of  passivity.  The  cynic,  the  scoffer,  the  man  who  has  no 
sturdy  intention,  is  as  truly  a  part  of  the  great  company  of  the 
unfit  which  nature  has  doomed  to  extinction  as  is  the  pauper 
or  the  idiot.  Therefore,  nothing  can  be  more  disheartening 
than  to  see  large  numbers  of  cultivated  men  falling  back  into 
the  position  of  political  indifference,  taking  the  ground  that 
all  earnest  strife  is  useless,  and  proclaiming  that  politics  are 
in  their  nature  corrupt,  demoralizing,  and  unfit  for  gentlemen. 
It  is  indeed  true  that  such  men  usually  are 

"  Calm  in  the  thick  of  the  tempest," 
they  have  the  virtue  of  restraint ;  but  not  the  less  are  they 

"  A  partner  in  its  motion  and  mixed  up 

(.  With  its  career." 

We  need  to-day  more  of  the  teaching  that  intellect  must  be 
positive  and  linked  to  serious  purpose. 

What,  then,  to  summarize  our  conclusions,  shall  we  say  is 


248  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

the  popular  instruction  most  necessary  in  a  democracy  ?  It 
is,  ^rst.  the  teaching  bv  every  available  a.gaacv  —  the  pulpit, 
the  press,  the  lecture  —  of  the  duty  of  training  children,  and 
as  far  as  possible  adults,  in  habits  of  active,  rather  than  ^of 
passivejem^j^ifllfiiit.  It  is.  secondlv.  the^  stirring  up  of^  intel- 
lectual strife.  It  is  the  inculcation  of  the  duty  of  seriously 
grappling  with  the  problem  presented  in  every  human  rela- 
tion, instead  of  accepting  its  sentimental  value  as  sufficient. 
It  is  the  teaching,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  that  it  is  folly 
to  yield  ourselves  to  any  mood  of  popular  feeling  or  to  any 
clamour  of  popular  belief,  until  we  have  subjected  the  implied 
proposition  to  that  truth-searching  doubt  which  insists  upon 
a  full  understanding  of  the  situation.  It  is,  finally,  the  teach- 
ing of  the  supremely  important  truth  that  intellect  must  be 
the  servant  and  guide  of  life.  All  these  teachings,  by  all  of 
these  agencies  of  popular  instruction,  must  be  not  less  by 
spirit,  by  manner,  suggestion,  and  example,  than  by  precept 
and  argumentation.  '^^iJtl^  >^^^  JJtUirit"!  t^""  iv.c.f,..Tr.f^..  ^irihif^]^ 
maintain  an  individual  faith  in  the  reality  nf  ]]\^  m^^ssagp. 
wjiich.  cn^ite  as  much  {i^  anv  W9rd^  that  h<?  may  i^^p.  wUl 
carry  conviction  to  those  whose  characters  he  would  m^nld. 
Kealizing,  as  he  must,  tliat  clangers  will  continually  threaten 
the  stability  of  any  popular  government  that  does  not  rest 
upon  moral  foundations  and  is  not  guided  by  calm  intelli- 
gence ;  knowing,  as  he  must,  that  doubt  in  the  higher  sense 
of  the  word  is  necessary  to  sincere  investigation ;  he  must  yet 
preserve  his  faith  in  the  possibility  of  passing  safely  through 
all  dangers  and  of  emerging  from  all  doubt  into  the  light  of 
attainable  truth.     With  Paracelsus,  he  must  say :  — 

"  If  I  stoop 
Into  a  dark  tremendous  sea  of  cloud, 
It  is  but  for  a  time  :  T  press  God's  lamp 
Close  to  my  l)reast ;  its  splendour,  soon  or  late. 
Will  pierce  the  gloom :  I  shall  emerge  one  day." 


XV 

THE   SHADOW   AND  THE   SUBSTANCE   OP 
REPUBLICAN   GOVERNMENT 


XV 

THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  SUBSTANCE  OF 
REPUBLICAN  GOVERNMENT 

Whether  our  political  institutions  are  more  or  less  repub- 
lican than  they  were  a  generation  or  two  ago,  is  a  ques- 
tion that  turns  upon  the  meaning  of  the  word  "republican." 
If  by  a  republic  we  mean  a  government  organized  by  a  large 
body  of  electors,  and  carried  on  through  the  agency  of  repre- 
sentatives who  are  responsible  to  their  constituents,  our  insti- 
tutions are  certainly  as  yet  republican  in  form.  Between 
form  and  substance,  however,  there  may  be  a  vital  difference  ; 
and  nothing  in  the  history  of  human  institutions  is  more 
familiar  than  the  survival  of  forms  from  which  the  original 
content  has  forever  disappeared. 

The  republics  of  the  past  did,  indeed,  disappear  in  form 
and  in  name  as  well  as  in  substance.  The  republic  of  Rome 
became  a  despotism  and  then  an  empire  ;  the  republics  of 
Florence  and  of  Venice  disappeared  before  the  power  of  the 
dictators ;  the  first  republic  of  France  gladly  exchanged  its 
anarchy  and  bloodshed  for  the  despotic  rule  of  the  first  Napo- 
leon ;  the  second  republic  of  France  willingly  surrendered 
itself  to  the  imperial  will  of  Napoleon  III. 

We  hardly  need  to  fear  that,  within  any  future  which 
human  foresight  can  now  explore,  the  political  institutions 
of  our  own  country  will  cease  to  be  republican  in  name  and 
outward  semblance.  It  is  peculiarly  characteristic  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  civilization  to  preserve  ancient  forms  while 
greatly,  or  even  wholly,  changing  the  substance  within. 
The  British  government  is  still  a  monarchy  in  name ;  its 
House  of  Peers  is  still  in  seeming  a  coordinate  branch  of  the 
lawmaking  power.     In  reality.  Great  Britain  has  long  been 

251 


252  DEMOCRACY   AND   EMPIRE 

one  of  the  most  democratic  of  modern  nations,  and  the  House 
of  Commons  is  practically  the  absolute  sovereign. 

In  the  United  States  we  have  seen  in  our  political  devel- 
opment more  than  one  exemplification  of  this  transformation 
of  institutions.  The  founders  of  the  Constitution  expected 
that  the  electoral  college  would  be  the  real  electing  body; 
and  from  1778  until  1800  the  electoral  college  did,  in  fact, 
choose  the  President  of  the  United  States.  But  in  1800  the 
practice  of  putting  forward  the  nominees  of  a  congressional 
caucus  sprang  up  and  rapidly  strengthened,  and  until  1824 
our  presidents  were  in  reality  chosen  by  Congress,  whose 
decisions  were  ratified  by  the  electoral  college.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  brief  period  of  nomination  by  the  state  legislatures. 
This  was  succeeded  by  the  present  system  in  1831  and  1832, 
when,  for  the  first  time,  candidates  were  put  in  nomination 
by  conventions  of  the  two  dominant  parties.  Since  that  time 
the  electoral  college  has  been  in  practice  nothing  more  than 
a  dignified  body  which  formally  ratifies  the  decision  already 
made ;  and  the  last  pretence  that  it  was,  or  could  be,  any- 
thing more  disappeared  in  1877,  when  James  Russell  Lowell 
refused  to  cast  his  vote  for  Tilden,  and  thereby  to  termi- 
nate the  dangerous  contest  between  Tilden  and  Hayes,  on 
the  ground  that  he  could  not  honourably  act  otherwise  than 
as  his  constituents  had  expected  when  they  voted  for  him. 

Yet  more  significant,  if  not  so  well  understood,  is  the 
change  that  has  taken  place  in  the  methods  of  making  and 
amending  statute  laws.  Probably  the  majority  of  American 
citizens  still  suppose  that  state  legislatures  are  a  law-creating 
power.  Actually,  to  a  great  extent,  they  make  law  to-day 
only  as  the  electoral  college  elects  a  chief  magistrate.  To 
a  great  extent  legislators  merely  formulate  and  ratify  meas- 
ures already  prepared  elsewhere.  Very  seldom,  indeed,  does 
a  member  of  a  legislature  introduce  a  bill  drafted  by  himself, 
and  in  which  he  himself  is  personally  interested.  Bills  are 
prepared  by  associations,  clubs,  individuals,  and  party  man- 
agers. They  are  taken  to  the  state  capital  by  paid  agents, 
who  ascertain  what  representative  and  what  senator  are,  on 
the  whole,  the   best  persons   to  introduce  the  measures  as 


REPUBLICAN  GOVERNMENT  253 

drafted,  and  who  then  watch  them  through  every  stage  of 
progress  to  enactment  or  defeat.  Legislatures,  in  fact,  have 
become  forms,  and  the  real  law-making  power  has  moved  back 
into  the  hands  of  individuals,  party  organizations,  and  other 
voluntary  associations. 

Under  this  system,  party  organizations  have  obtained  con- 
trol of  governmental  machinery;  and  within  each  party  a 
smaller  voluntary  group,  consisting  of  the  workers  and  the 
leaders,  the  "  machine  "  and  the  "  boss,"  has  risen  to  an  un- 
stable supremacy,  which  is  practically  absolute  most  of  the 
time,  although  now  and  then  it  is  greatly  limited  by  faction 
or  revolt.  Consequently,  all  measures,  good  and  bad,  that 
originate  outside  of  party  organizations,  must  be  put  in  line 
with  party  interests.  If  they  antagonize  the  plans  of  the 
"■  boss "  and  the  "  machine,"  they  are  usually  defeated  ah 
initio,  because  of  the  certainty  that  all  party  men  who  sup- 
port them  will  fail  of  renomination,  or  of  appointment,  or  of 
promotion  in  the  future.  Obviously,  therefore,  the  question 
whether  our  system  of  government  by  voluntary  organiza- 
tions and  personal  leadership,  working  through  governmental 
forms  that  are  republican  in  name  and  appearance,  shall  be 
also  republican  in  reality,  is  one  that  will  be  answered  by  the 
relations  that  develop  between  party  organization,  on  the  one 
hand,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  those  thousands  of  free  associa- 
tions which  are  primarily  concerned  with  business,  religion, 
science,  art,  education,  and  philanthrop}-,  but  are  compelled 
from  time  to  time  to  ask  for  changes  in  existing  law  or 
administration.  Theoretically,  the  government  that  has  its 
springs  in  voluntary  initiative  should  be  the  freest,  the  most 
truly  republican,  of  all  known  modes  of  government.  Theo- 
retically, the  leadership  of  the  "  boss  "  should  be  flexible  and 
delicately  sensitive  to  public  feeling;  because,  theoretically, 
it  is  a  product  of  a  free  competition  and  natural  selection 
among  bosses.  Actually,  however,  when  the  political  party 
has  made  itself  the  only  form  of  non-governmental  organiza- 
tion through  which  other  forms  can  influence  the  legislative 
body,  the  government  that  results  is  republican  in  reality  only 
if  a  majority  of  voters  are  keenly  alive  to  the  importance  of 


254  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

maintaining  other  forms  of  free  association  besides  their  party, 
to  the  importance  of  securing  consideration  for  every  question 
upon  its  merits,  and  to  the  importance  of  keeping  the  way 
open  for  every  natural  leader  of  men  to  rise  to  a  position  of 
influence.  If  a  political  party  can  retain  power  by  other 
means  than  its  appeal  to  conscience  and  intelligence,  or  if 
two  great  parties  by  deals  and  trades  can  defy  both  common 
sense  and  common  morality,  a  government  republican  in 
name  and  form  must  soon  cease  to  be  republican  in  fact. 

Herein  lies  the  danger  of  those  relations  which  party 
organizations  have  established  with  interests  that  furnish 
the  pecuniary  means  for  great  political  undertakings.  It  is 
no  secret  that  in  former  years  the  Republican  party  drew 
its  revenues  from  office-holders,  who  were  systematically 
assessed ;  it  is  no  secret  that  in  the  presidential  contest  of 
1896  the  same  party  obtained  the  revenues  with  which  it 
conducted  its  campaign  of  education  against  the  free  silver 
movement,  by  contributions  from  the  great  corporations.  Di- 
rectors did  not  hesitate  to  appropriate  the  money  of  their 
stockholders  to  this  purpose,  or  to  justify  their  action  by  the 
plea  that  the  very  existence  of  business  interests  was  im- 
perilled. The  enormous  danger  for  the  future  that  lurks  in 
this  argument  and  this  practice  needs  only  to  be  mentioned  to 
be  understood.  The  Democratic  party,  on  the  other  hand,  has, 
until  recently,  drawn  its  revenues  in  the  great  cities  chiefly 
from  saloons  and  from  various  forms  of  vice.  It  is  generally 
believed  that  in  recent  municipal  campaigns  in  New  York 
the  Tammany  organization  has  expended  large  sums  of  money 
obtained  from  corporations  enjoying  public  franchises. 

Is  there  a  lesson  for  the  citizen  to  draw  from  these  notori- 
ous facts?  Is  the  substance  of  republicanism  endangered, 
unless  certain  changes  in  our  present  methods  of  goverimient 
can  be  secured?  Is  the  most  important  practical  conclusion, 
perhaps,  the  suggestion  that  such  great  services  as  those 
which  are  now  rendered  in  our  cities  by  corporations  holding 
franchises,  and  such  great  pecuniary  interests  as  the  liquor 
traffic  should  be  taken  altogether  out  of  private  hands,  and 
placed  within  the  control  and  management  of  the  state  ? 


REPUBLICAN  GOVERNMENT  255 

An  affirmative  answer  to  these  questions  is  held  by  many 
thoughtful  men  to  be  almost  necessarily  true ;  and  they 
therefore  throw  themselves  with  sincere  earnestness  into  the 
agitation  for  a  public  ownership  of  quasi-public  enterprises. 
It  is  highly  probable  that,  in  a  measure,  their  efforts  will  be 
successful.  The  present  drift  of  public  policy  is  toward  an 
expansion  of  the  business  activities  of  municipal  corporations. 
This  tendency,  however,  is  not  without  its  own  great  dan- 
gers. Political  parties  that  at  heart  believe  in  the  spoils 
system  can  probably  destroy  the  reality  of  popular  govern- 
ment more  quickly  through  the  exploitation  of  a  gigantic 
public  business  than  through  any  other  means.  To  look  to 
socialistic  measures  for  an  increase  of  essential  republican- 
ism is,  I  fear,  to  misapprehend  either  republicanism  or  social- 
ism. The  substance  of  republicanism  must  be  preserved,  if 
at  all,  by  further  increasing,  not  by  curtailing,  the  freedom 
of  individual  initiative,  the  vitality  of  voluntary  organiza- 
tion, the  competitive  struggle  among  the  true  natural  leaders 
of  men ;  and  by  more  strenuously  demanding  that  political 
parties  shall  deal  openly,  soberly,  and  honestly  with  public 
interests. 

All  this  can  be  accomplished  if  the  "  boss  "  and  the  "  ma- 
chine "  can  be  made  responsible  to  the  party.  The  party 
will  then  be  itself  responsible  to  the  public.  Just  how  such 
responsibility  is  to  be  brought  about,  perhaps  no  one  at  pres- 
ent very  clearly  sees.  Until  the  thing  actually  happened  no 
one  in  England  foresaw  how  a  shamelessly  corrupt  party 
government  was  to  become  sensitively  responsible  to  public 
opinion  through  the  device  of  ministerial  responsibility  in 
the  House  of  Commons.  A  very  different  device  will  have 
to  be  invented  for  the  United  States ;  but  it  is  not  unrea- 
sonable to  expect  that  in  one  way  or  another  the  "  boss  "  and 
the  "  machine  "  will  presently  be  made  as  strictly  accounta- 
ble to  their  party  as  are  the  Prime  Minister  and  his  associates 
in  the  British  cabinet. 


XVI 

THE  CONSENT  OF  THE  GOVERNED 


XVI 
THE   CONSENT   OF   THE   GOVERNED 

There  could  be  no  better  proof  that  ethical  ideas  are  an 
expression  of  a  vague  but  massive  desire  to  break  over  limit- 
ing conditions,  and  permit  an  ever-enlarging  development  of 
human  personality,  than  is  afforded  in  the  maxim  so  dear 
to  the  American  mind,  that  governments  derive  their  just 
powers  from  the  consent  of  the  governed. 

From  every  point  of  view  this  maxim  is  revolutionary. 
As  an  epigrammatic  bit  of  political  literature,  its  origin  may 
be  found  in  the  revolutionary  thought  of  Rousseau  and 
his  contemporaries;  while  back  of  Rousseau  it  may  in  sub- 
stance be  traced  through  many  generations  of  speculative 
discontent.  As  a  statement  of  alleged  political  fact,  it  has 
singularly  little  content  of  truth.  In  human  history  govern- 
ments have  not  often  derived  any  powers,  just  or  unjust,  from 
any  conscious,  rational  consent  of  the  governed.  Consent  is 
more  than  submission ;  it  implies  that  the  consenting  person, 
with  full  apprehension  of  the  facts,  has  agreed  to  a  certain 
conclusion  or  policy,  through  an  act  of  his  individual  reason. 
Governments  have  always  been  dependent  for  their  stability 
upon  the  non-resistance  of  the  governed,  but  non-resistance 
may  be  a  product  of  a  thousand  mental  and  moral  factors 
other  than  consent.  Furthermore,  only  through  revolution 
have  there  been  occasional  instances  of  the  establishment  of 
government  upon  the  consent  of  the  governed.  No  state  has 
ever  been  outright  created  by  covenant.  And,  finally,  the 
maxim  has  in  our  own  history  been  used  chiefly  for  revolu- 
tionary purposes.  The  actual  evolution  of  government  in 
times  of  tranquillity  has  gone  on,  for  the  most  part,  with  little 
conscious  reference  to  other  than  purely  practical  considera- 
tions  of  possibility,  expediency,  and  convenience.       Police 

259 


260  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

powers  for  the  most  part  have  been  developed  rather  with 
reference  to  the  maxim  that  public  welfare  is  the  supreme 
law,  than  to  the  proposition  that  no  law  is  ethically  right  if 
it  does  not  rest  upon  the  consent  of  those  who  must  obey  it. 
The  annexation  of  territory  and  the  framing  of  constitutional 
provisions  to  govern  the  relations  of  commonwealths  to  the 
Union,  in  like  manner  have  proceeded  from  considerations  of 
general  fitness,  opportunity,  and  practical  utility,  rather  than 
from  notions  of  ideal  justice.  Nevertheless,  every  American 
doubtless  would  say  that  the  foundation  of  government  upon 
the  consent  of  the  governed  is  an  ideal  to  be  reverently  cher- 
ished and,  as  far  as  possible,  attained. 

This  wide  divergence  between  principle  and  practice  is  of 
course  differently  regarded  by  men  of  different  sentiments. 
While  to  minds  of  one  tj^pe  it  is  only  a  phase  of  the  conflict 
between  desire  and  fact,  between  ideal  and  possibility,  which 
shduld  not  discourage  us ;  to  minds  of  another  type  it  is  a 
more  or  less  disgraceful  failure  to  remain  true  to  our  pro- 
fessions.    That  a  nation  which  was  founded  —  at  least  pro-\ 
fessedly  founded  —  upon  the  maxim  of  consent,  should  use] 
its  power  to  compel  submission,  seems  to  them  to  be  an  uttew 
repudiation  of  moral  principle,  not  to  say  an  act  of  unpa/ 
don  able  bad  faith. 

It  may  therefore  be  worth  while  to  inquire  whether  the 
conflict  between  ideal  and  reality  is  indeed  as  fundamental  as 
sometimes  appears.  And  this  we  can  best  do  by  asking  what 
rational  meaning  the  maxim  itself  contains. 

Is  it,  then,  true,  merely  as  an  ethical  proposition,  that  gov- 
ernments derive  all  their  just  powers  from  the  consent  of  the 
governed?  If  we  say  that  they  do,  we  must  define  our  posi- 
tion upon  the  moral  rightfulness  of  any  coercion.  Shall  we 
say  with  the  philosophical  anarchists,  that  all  government  of 
man  by  man  is  wrong?  This  is  a  simple  and  consistent  doc- 
trine, if  not  a  practical  one ;  but  if  we  accept  it,  we  deny  that 
governments  can  derive  just  powers  from  any  source  what- 
ever. Or  sliall  we  say  that  the  coercion  of  individuals  or  of 
minorities  by  majorities  is  a  just  power  of  governments,  deriv- 
able from  "  consent "  ?     An  affirmative  answer  is  easily  sus- 


THE   CONSENT  OF  THE   GOVERNED  261 

tained,  if,  at  the  outset,  we  give  narrow  technical  meanings  to 
the  terms  "justice,"  "government,"  and  "consent."  If  we  so 
choose  we  may  say  that  by  "consent"  we  mean  only  that  men 
rationally  agree  among  themselves  that  public  order  must  be 
established,  and  that,  having  done  this,  they  must  not  rebel  when 
they  are  subsequently  required  to  do  various  things  which, 
at  the  time,  they  do  not  rationally  approve ;  that  by  "  govern- 
ment "  we  mean  the  will  of  a  majority ;  and  that  by  "  justice  " 
we  mean  the  execution  of  such  laws  as  the  majority  chooses 
to  enact.  Thus  narrowly  construing  the  terms,  we  may  say 
that  governments  so  established  exercise  no  unjust  powers  if 
a  majority  coerces  a  minority ;  if  police  powers  interfere  out- 
rageously with  private  conduct ;  if,  under  the  guise  of  taxa- 
tion, governments  systematically  rob  and  confiscate ;  if,  indeed, 
governments  even  trample  upon  such  fundamental  rights  as 
the  habeas  corpus  or  the  trial  by  jury.  Is  this  narrow  con- 
struction, however,  that  which  the  maxim  really  should  bear  ? 
If  it  is,  the  only  comment  to  be  made  is  that  the  maxim  is  of 
no  conceivable  value  for  ethical  theory,  and  of  little  more 
than  a  vague  and  sentimental  value  for  political  philosophy. 
It  means  that  practically  the  test  of  moral  government  is 
nothing  more  than  mere  approval  by  human  numbers,  who 
may  be  ignorant  or  even  depraved,  and  that  minorities,  even 
when  made  up  of  the  most  intelligent  and  conscientious  men 
in  the  community,  have  no  other  moral  rights  than  those  which 
a  majority,  in  the  exercise  of  its  legal  power,  chooses  to  recog- 
nize. If  this  is  all  that  the  phrase  means,  it  is  not  worth  a 
moment's  consideration  by  any  intelligent  being. 

It  will  hardly  be  disputed  that  those  who  really  care  about 
this  historic  maxim  regard  it  as  having  a  much  more  funda- 
mental and  noble  content.  They  suppose  it  to  mean  not  only 
that,  when  a  government  is  established,  a  majority  of  those 
who  are  to  live  under  it  must  assent  to  its  formation  and  pre- 
scribe its  powers ;  not  only  that,  in  its  subsequent  mainte- 
nance, a  majority  of  its  subjects  must  continue  to  desire  its 
maintenance  and  continue  to  approve  of  its  constitution  and 
functions ;  but  also  that,  in  the  ordinary  exercise  of  its  func- 
tions, a  government  must  respect  the  rational  convictions  and 


262  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

the  moral  rights  of  all  its  subjects,  whether  —  on  questions 
of  mere  expediency — they  be  counted  with  a  minority  or  with 
a  majority.  That  this  is  a  true  proposition,  we  have  proof  in 
the  vast  amount  of  attention  which,  in  our  constitutional  law, 
has  been  given  to  the  protection  of  the  rights  of  minorities, 
and  even  of  individuals.  The  very  limitation  of  the  powers 
of  governments,  the  positive  prohibitions  of  certain  forms  of 
governmental  conduct,  the  insistence  upon  a  two-thirds  or  a 
three-fourths  vote  in  the  decision  of  various  fundamental  mat- 
ters—  all  these  are  admissions  that,  in  the  performance  of 
its  functions,  a  government  to  the  utmost  possible  extent 
should  look  for  and  secure  the  consent  of  the  governed, 
even  when  the  governed  are  in  a  helpless  minority. 

If,  then,  we  take  this  logical  construction  of  the  maxim, 
and  then  accept  the  maxim,  we  are  bound  to  go  yet  further, 
and  to  say  that,  as  a  moral  principle,  governments  should  do 
absolutely  nothing  which — in  some  sense  congenial  to  reason 
and  conscience  —  the  subject  of  government  does  not  approve, 
or  may  reasonably  be  held  to  approve.  To  use  a  familiar 
illustration  from  theology  and  ethical  philosophy,  it  is  a 
known  possibility  of  human  experience  that  the  sinner  or  the 
wrong-doer,  when  punished  for  his  evil  act,  may  as  a  rational 
and  conscientious  being  admit  that  his  punishment  is  just. 
This  experience  of  the  race,  then,  should  set  the  limits  to  even 
the  punitive  action  of  government,  and  much  more  to  all  action 
that  deals  with  men  who  are  in  no  sense  offenders.  Even  the 
punitive  action  of  government  must  be  of  such  a  nature  that 
the  wrong-doer  himself,  if  not  an  idiot  or  devoid  of  con- 
science, in  his  inmost  soul  and  reason  must  allow  that  the 
action  of  government  toward  him  is  right. 

Thus  it  would  appear  that  the  ethical  and  practical  con- 
struction of  the  maxim  that  governments  derive  their  just 
powers  from  the  consent  of  the  governed  is,  that  govern- 
ments must  be  so  constituted,  must  be  so  hedged  about  by 
limitations,  and  in  the  performance  of  all  their  functions 
must  be  so  regardful  of  fundamental  moral  truths  that  all 
their  acts  shall  receive  the  full  assent  of  the  reason  and  con- 
science of  all  subjects.     This,  of  course,  is  an  ideal  that  never 


THE   CONSENT  OF  THE   GOVERNED  263 

yet  has  been  realized  in  human  history.  My  contention  is 
merely  that  the  maxim  in  question  expresses  this  ide&l ;  or 
that,  if  it  does  not,  the  maxim  itself  is  worthless. 

If,  however,  we  accept  this  as  the  true  content  of  our  his- 
toric maxim,  a  conclusion  emerges  which  seems  not  to  have 
been  apprehended  by  everybody.  At  any  rate  it  has  been 
missed  by  those  who  have  protested  against  coercive  acts 
that  have  seemed  to  be  necessary  in  the  interest  of  the  gen- 
eral welfare,  in  the  interest  of  national  cohesion,  or  in  the 
interest  of  mankind.  Over  and  over  again,  in  our  own  his- 
tory, the  powers  of  state  and  national  governments  have  been 
coercively  applied  to  compel  the  submission  of  men  who  be- 
lieved that  they  had  as  good  a  right  to  rebel  against  the 
existing  governmental  authority  —  because  they  had  never 
given,  or  were  unwilling  to  continue,  their  consent  to  it  —  as 
had  the  men  of  the  thirteen  colonies  who  threw  off  the  Brit- 
ish yoke.  At  the  outset  we  compelled  the  submission  of 
Indian  tribes  who  were  the  rightful  owners  of  land  that  we 
desired  to  possess.  Rhode  Island  was  vigorously  threatened 
with  compulsion  if  she  did  not  throw  in  her  fortunes  with 
the  other  commonwealths  under  the  Federal  Constitution. 
It  was  thought  no  injustice  that  only  a  few  of  the  four  mill- 
ion persons  who  constituted  the  American  population  when 
the  Constitution  was  adopted,  were  allowed  to  vote  for  repre- 
sentatives. The  Southern  states,  which  maintained  that  the 
Union  was  nothing  but  a  federation  that  could  be  dissolved 
at  the  will  of  its  component  members,  were  compelled  to 
accept  the  alternative  interpretation  of  the  commonwealths 
of  the  North.  And  now,  as  a  result  of  the  war  with  Spain, 
we  are  engaged  in  the  attempt  to  compel  a  population  of  ten 
million  souls  to  yield  to  our  national  authority,  although  they 
express  their  dissent  in  armed  resistance. 

It  is  a  significant  fact,  that  among  those  who  insist  that 
the  maxim  of  the  consent  of  the  governed  should  bear  a 
wide  ethical  interpretation,  there  is  much  diversity  of  opinion 
about  the  rightfulness  of  coercion  in  the  instances  that  have 
just  been  named.  There  is  little  dissent  from  the  view  that, 
on  one  or  another  ground,  the  conquest  of  the  Indian  tribes 


264  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

was  admissible.  There  is  fundamental  disagreement  about 
the  ethical  rightfulness  of  the  coercion  of  the  South,  and 
almost  equal  diversity  of  opinion  about  the  moral  rightful- 
ness of  the  coercion  of  the  Filipinos. 

The  obvious  explanation  of  this  difference  is  that,  while 
some  men  consistently  hold  the  doctrine  that  governments 
should  rest  upon  consent,  others  inconsistently  are  disposed 
to  regard  it  as  of  limited  application ;  or,  with  more  show  of 
reason,  to  admit  that  it  is  less  fundamental  than  the  maxim 
of  the  general  welfare;  since,  after  all,  self-preservation  is 
the  first  law  of  nature,  and  any  more  ideal  ethical  principle 
can  be  put  in  practice  only  when  self-preservation  and  oppor- 
tunity for  the  fittest  in  the  struggle  for  existence  have  been 
made  secure. 

What,  then,  I  desire  here  to  point  out  is  the  true  ethical 
import  of  the  maxim  of  consent.  In  reality  we  do  not  need 
to  appeal  from  the  maxim  of  consent  to  any  other  principle, 

—  like  that  of  self-preservation,  or  the  survival  of  the  fittest, 

—  in  justification  of  a  policy  which  strengthens  or  broadens 
civilization,  or  which  in  any  part  of  the  world  displaces  a 
lower  by  a  higher  social  order.  This  is  equivalent  to  saying 
that  those  who  denounce  the  expropriation  of  the  Indian 
tribes,  or  the  coercion  of  Rhode  Island,  or  the  coercion  of  the 
South,  or  of  the  Philippine  Islanders,  are  really  failing  to 
give  to  their  maxim  of  consent  that  complete  ethical  inter- 
pretation which  they  believe  they  have  found  in  it ;  and  that 
those  who  would  justify  these  acts  by  subordinating  the 
maxim  of  consent  to  one  that  they  regard  as  more  funda- 
mental, have  in  like  manner  failed  to  see  what  the  maxim 
involves. 

Accordingly,  let  us  now  raise  the  final  and  crucial  ques- 
tion. If  we  seek  in  our  maxim  a  deep  ethical  meaning,  can 
we  say  that  governments  derive  their  just  powers  from  the 
consent  of  the  governed  at  the  moment  ivhen  they  submit  to  its 
authority  ?  If  we  patiently  and  conscientiously  reflect  upon 
this  question,  we  shall  undoubtedly  be  obliged  to  answer  it 
in  the  negative.  If  I  am  a  wrong-doer  and,  in  the  course  of 
my  evil  career,  am  brought  to  bay  by  governmental  authority, 


THE   CONSENT  OF  THE   GOVERNED  265 

it  is  highly  improbable  that,  at  the  moment  of  my  arrest  and 
conviction,  I  shall  freely  yield  the  assent  of  my  mind  and 
will  to  the  act  of  coercion  which  has  deprived  me  of  my 
liberty.  And  yet,  when  I  have  had  time  to  reflect,  or  when, 
to  use  the  theological  phrase,  I  have  undergone  the  convic- 
tion of  sin,  and  have  begun  to  realize  that  I  have  in  reality 
been  a  wrong-doer,  that  the  fault  has  been  mine,  that  I  my- 
self have  been  the  aggressor — then,  however  much  I  may 
dislike  and  regret  my  punishment,  I  shall  in  my  reason  and 
conscience  consent  thereto.  I  shall  admit  that  the  authority 
against  which  I  have  rebelled  has,  after  all,  been  just.  Or, 
to  take  a  slightly  different  illustration :  As  a  child,  I  may 
have  rebelled  against  the  authority  of  my  father  and  my 
teachers,  and  have  denounced  their  rules  and  their  punish- 
ments as  iniquitous ;  yet  if,  when  I  am  grown  and  have  at- 
tained the  full  measure  of  ethical  consciousness,  I  look  back 
upon  my  childhood  years  and,  reflecting  upon  all  their  inci- 
dents, in  the  exercise  of  my  own  judgment  decide  that,  after 
all,  the  government  to  which  I  was  then  subjected  was  rea- 
sonable, that  it  fitted  me  for  manhood  and  its  responsibilities, 
—  then,  obviously,  I  must  pronounce  that  government  just, 
and  yield  to  it  my  rational  approval.  Thus  it  appears  that, 
in  simple  cases  of  this  sort  at  least,  the  ethical  justice  of  gov- 
ernment has  its  source,  not  in  the  consent  of  subjects  who  at 
the  moment  are  unfit  to  understand  or  to  appreciate  it ;  but 
only  in  that  approval  which  may  be  given  or  withheld  after 
full  experience  of  the  nature,  objects,  and  excellence  of  gov- 
ernment, and  after  the  attainment  of  full  maturity  of  reason 
to  understand  and  to  interpret  it.  In  like  manner,  if  a  bar- 
barian people  is  compelled  to  accept  the  authority  of  a  state 
more  advanced  in  civilization,  the  test  of  the  rightfulness  or 
wrongfulness  of  this  imposition  of  authority  is  to  be  found 
not  at  all  in  any  assent  or  resistance  at  the  moment  when  the 
government  begins,  but  only  iJi  the  degree  of  prohahility  that, 
after  full  experience  of  what  the  government  can  do  to  raise 
the  subject  population  to  a  higher  plane  of  life,  a  free  and 
rational  conseM  ivill  he  given  by  those  who  have  come  to  un- 
derstand all  that  has  been  done.     So,  too,  of  the  coercion  of  a 


266  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

rebellious  state :  on  grounds  of  ethical  theory  only,  leaving 
aside  all  questions  of  expediency  and  survival  of  the  fit,  the 
test  is  found  in  the  ultimate  approval  of  those  who  have  at 
first,  against  their  will,  been  compelled  to  perpetuate  rela- 
tions which  they  would  have  dissolved.  If,  in  later  years, 
they  see  and  admit  that  the  perpetuation  of  the  disputed  rela- 
tions was  for  their  highest  interest,  it  may  reasonably  be  held 
that  authority  has  been  imposed  with  the  consent  of  the 
governed. 

This,  then,  is  the  only  rational  meaning  that  can  be  found 
in  our  venerable  maxim.  Remembering  that  consent  is  an 
approval  by  conscience  and  reason,  and  not  a  mere  submis- 
sion, it  is  obvious  that  consent  can  be  given  only  when  reason 
and  conscience  are  brought  face  to  face  with  the  results  of 
experience.  Therefore,  whenever  the  consent  of  the  gov- 
erned and  the  law  of  self-preservation,  or  the  law  by  which 
higher  civilizations  supplant  the  lower,  are  brought  face  to 
face  in  apparent  conflict,  the  legitimate  and  rightful  appeal 
is  always  from  any  dissent  of  the  governed  now  to  that  prob- 
able consent  which,  we  have  sufficient  reason  to  believe,  will 
be  freely  given  when  all  the  facts  are  clearly  seen,  and  when 
the  reason  and  conscience  of  the  governed,  fully  awakened 
and  matured,  are  able  to  look  back  upon  their  history  in  the 
light  of  empirical  knowledge. 


XVII 
IMPERIALISM  ? 


XVII 
IMPERIALISM? 

Political  events,  unlike  the  phenomena  of  the  physical 
world,  can  never  be  studied  exclusively  from  the  standpoint 
of  descriptive  and  explanatory  science.  The  ethical  instinct 
and  the  ideal-creating  passion  will  ever  compel  men  to  con- 
sider what  "ought  to  be"  in  public  policy,  no  less  than  to 
seek  the  causes  of  what  has  been  and  what  is,  and  to  study 
the  factors  that  are  shaping  what  is  to  be.  Nevertheless, 
without  patient  investigation  of  causes  and  tendencies  there 
can  be  no  sound  philosophy  of  politics ;  and  it  is  an  unfor- 
tunate infirmity  of  many  noble  minds  that  in  their  ambition 
to  perfect  the  ethical  ideals  of  the  race  they  neglect  the 
humbler  task  of  forecasting  social  probabilities.  They  do 
not  err  in  assuming  that  a  widely  shared  sentiment  of  what 
"  ought  to  be  "  should  and  will  be  a  factor  in  the  further 
evolution  of  public  interests ;  for  this  assumption  is  true. 
Their  error  lies  in  a  more  or  less  serious  failure  to  grapple 
with  the  larger  problem  of  the  relative  importance  of  such 
factors,  and  consequently  in  a  more  or  less  complete  failure 
to  perceive  what  is  reasonably  to  be  expected  as  the  actual 
outcome  of  the  struggle  of  competing  or  cooperating  influ- 
ences, regarded  as  a  whole. 

This  is  unfortunate,  because  often  it  results  in  a  waste  or 
misdirection  of  the  intellectual  energies  of  the  wisest  men 
in  the  community.  So  intent  are  they  upon  their  notion  of 
what  ought  to  be,  so  blind  are  they,  at  times,  to  what  prob- 
ably will  be,  that  they  give  us  no  real  aid  in  adapting 
ourselves  to  inevitable  conditions.  In  battling  for  the 
impossible,  long  after  they  should  see  its  impossibility,  they 
leave  us  without  guidance  in  making  the  best  of  circum- 
stances as  they  are  —  in  adjusting  our  lives  to  what  cannot 
be  helped. 

269 


270  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

With  much  reluctance,  and  with  a  painful  feeling  that  I 
am  opposed  to  men  whose  opinions  I  have  long  held  in  deep 
respect,  I  have  been  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  a  melan- 
choly example  of  the  mistake  that  I  have  just  described  has 
recently  been  afforded  in  the  discussion  of  the  war  between 
the  United  States  and  Spain,  and  is  now  being  afforded  in 
the  further  discussion  of  the  future  policy  of  the  United 
States.  The  attitude  of  nearly  every  conservative  political 
thinker  who  has  approached  the  subject  in  a  philosophical 
temper  has  been  that  of  moral  opposition  to  the  war.  AVith 
few  exceptions,  the  same  thinkers  are  now  vigorously  oppos- 
ing all  territorial  expansion,  and  are  especially  earnest  in 
their  antagonism  to  the  retention  of  the  Philippine  Islands 
by  the  United  States.  The  purpose  of  the  present  article  is 
to  show  that  this  opposition,  although  it  springs  from  con- 
scientious convictions  and  is  backed  by  arguments  that 
deserve  thoughtful  consideration,  is  probably  as  futile  as 
opposition  to  the  trade  wind  or  the  storm.  There  are  not 
lacking  reasons  for  thinking  that  the  war  with  Spain  was  as 
inevitable  as  any  event  of  nature,  and  that,  at  this  particular 
stage  in  the  development  of  the  United  States,  territorial  ex- 
pansion is  as  certain  as  the  advent  of  spring  after  winter. 

If  these  hypotheses  are  sound,  it  follows  that  our  wise  men 
should  discontinue  their  idle  contention  against  cosmic  law 
—  in  the  realms  of  mind  and  of  history  —  and  should  address 
themselves  to  the  practical  question :  How  can  the  American 
people  best  adapt  themselves  to  their  new  responsibilities  ? 

These  assertions  must,  of  course,  be  proved.  The  alleged 
reasons  must  be  named.  It  is  idle  to  say  that  the  war  with 
Sjiain  could  not  have  been  prevented,  or  that  territorial 
expansion  is  a  matter  of  destiny,  unless  there  is  an  array  of 
impregnable  facts  to  support  such  propositions. 

Why,  then,  should  we  entertain  the  proposition  that  tlie 
Spanish  War  was  inevitable?  The  very  men  wlio  have  most 
vehemently  declared  that  the  war  ought  not  to  have  occurred 
have  partly  answered  this  question:  they  have  marslialled 
much  proof  that  hostilities  could  not  have  been  averted. 


IMPERIALISM  271 

They  have  told  us  that  the  war  was  brought  on  by  "  jingoes  " 
and  yellow  journals,  aided  and  abetted  by  the  combative 
instincts  that  express  themselves  in  college  athletics.  For 
many  years  past,  they  have  assured  us,  an  uneasy  element  in 
the  American  population  had  been  eager  to  engage  in  blood- 
letting. The  peaceful  pursuits  of  industry,  professional  life, 
and  scholarship  had  become  wearisome  to  men  of  this  kind. 
A  new  excitement  was  necessary  to  give  vent  to  their  pent-up 
feelings.  In  Congress  the  Morgans,  the  Cabot  Lodges,  and 
the  Forakers  had  clamoured  for  a  foe.  They  had  feared  to  see 
the  American  people  lose  its  fighting  qualities.  They  had 
dreaded  the  day  when  we  should  cease  to  be  manly  and 
become  "supine."  Our  educators  had  feared  that  mere 
intellectual  struggles  would  leave  our  youth  anaemic  book- 
worms, unfit  for  the  serious  work  of  practical  politics.  The 
yellow  journalists,  having  worked  the  field  of  crime  and 
scandal  to  the  point  of  diminishing  returns,  had  been  obliged 
to  cast  about  for  new  sensations ;  and  what  material  could  be 
found  more  profitable  to  the  purveyor  of  extras  than  news  of 
battle  ?  All  these  people,  we  have  been  told,  in  the  bottom 
of  their  hearts  really  wanted  war  —  war  to  develop  American 
character,  war  to  afford  an  outlet  to  American  energies  and 
genius. 

Now,  an  amusing  side  of  all  this  is  that  the  writers  and 
speakers  who  have  been  telling  us  these  things  have  appar- 
ently been  making  statements  that  they  themselves  have 
not  quite  believed.  Or,  at  least,  they  have  been  so  anxious 
to  emphasize  their  disapproval  or  even  contempt  of  the 
belligerent  elements  in  our  population,  that  they  have  failed 
to  measure  in  a  cold-blooded  way  the  importance  of  certain 
facts  merely  as  facts.  They  seem  to  have  supposed  that  they 
could  describe  a  man  as  bloodthirsty,  and  that  then,  without 
being  ridiculous,  they  could  argue  that,  if  only  the  man  were 
not  bloodthirsty  there  need  not  be  any  fighting.  In  fact,  it 
seems  never  to  have  occurred  to  these  gentlemen  that,  if  we 
are  a  nation  of  jingoes,  bullies,  and  sensation  lovers,  it  is  waste 
of  breath  to  talk  about  what  might  have  been  if  we  had  all 
been  reasonable,  long-suffering,  diplomatic,  and  peace-loving. 


272  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

Again,  these  deprecators  of  force  have  assured  us  that,  in 
its  final  outbreak,  the  war  was  merely  an  act  of  vengeance. 
They  have  said  that  the  American  people  lost  its  senses  over 
the  destruction  of  the  Maine^  and  made  no  critical  inquiry  to 
ascertain  whether  this  disaster  occurred  with  the  connivance 
of  the  Spanish  government.  They  have  asserted  that  the  whole 
nation,  at  white  heat  with  excitement,  took  up  the  cry  of  "  Re- 
member the  3Iaine  !  "  without  troubling  itself  with  any  nice 
questions  of  legal  evidence  or,  indeed,  of  moral  probability. 

Here,  again,  we  must  notice  that  those  who  have  con- 
demned the  war  on  this  ground  have  been  so  preoccupied 
with  moral  feeling  that  they  have  failed  to  see  the  scientific 
significance  of  the  fact  which  they  allege,  when  looked  at 
merely  as  a  fact.  If  the  American  people  was  indeed  swept 
off  its  feet  by  a  wave  of  revengeful  passion  that  submerged 
both  reason  and  conscience,  it  is  but  little  more  profitable  to 
discuss  the  occurrence  in  terms  of  the  moral  imperative  than 
to  talk  about  the  wickedness  of  a  West  Indian  hurricane. 

In  like  manner,  these  reasoners  have  alleged  other  facts 
which,  if  they  are  facts,  assure  our  territorial  expansion.  It 
seems  that  we  are  a  nation  of  promoters,  lobbyists,  "  boodlers," 
place-hunters,  and  Indian  agents.  We  long  ago  became  weary 
of  sowing  and  reaping,  and  also  of  legitimate  trading;  we 
are  beginning  now  to  weary  even  of  our  protected  manufac- 
tures. We  must  find  new  opportunities  for  making  fortunes 
by  jobs  and  government  contracts.  The  reservations  allotted 
to  our  unhappy  red  men  have  nearly  all  been  ai:)propriated  by 
rough  riders,  and  we  naturally  turn  to  the  sunny  lands  and 
gentle  savages  of  Hawaii  and  Luzon  for  farther  practice  of 
the  Christian  art  of  exploitation.  Honolulu  may  not  be  as 
good  a  field  for  political  banking  as  Philadelpliia  has  been ; 
and  Cuba  does  not  afford  unlimited  opportunities  for  the 
development  of  Star  Route  postal  facilities.  Nevertheless, 
they  offer  something  better  than  an  honest  living,  earned  in 
the  sweat  of  one's  brow.  No  one  has  so  vivid  a  sense  of  the 
terrible  rapidity  with  which  tlie  world  is  shrivelling  up  as 
those  commercial  sharks  who  "stand  in"  with  successive 
administrations. 


IMPERIALISM  273 

All  these  people,  we  are  given  to  understand,  are  collec- 
tively the  dominant  power  in  American  politics.  They 
control  Congresses  and  the  political  bosses.  When  times 
grow  dull,  they  put  forth  every  effort  to  secure  some  new 
outlet  for  their  energies.  For  years  they  have  been  urging 
the  annexation  of  Hawaii,  and  it  now  appears  that  they  were 
guilty  also  of  fomenting  disturbances  in  Cuba.  Doubtless 
they  were  the  wicked  ones  who  prompted  Mr.  Olney  to  write 
his  famous  message  on  the  Venezuelan  question,  in  the  hope 
that  we  should  evict  Great  Britain  from  some  of  her  colonial 
possessions ;  and  they  have  even  been  suspected  of  designs 
to  build  —  at  the  public  expense  —  a  stone-ballasted  railroad 
from  the  Klondike  to  Tierra  del  Fuego,  in  anticipation  of 
our  annexation  of  South  America.  And  yet,  notwithstand- 
ing this  complete  control  of  our  politics  and  government  by 
commercial  adventurers,  the  philosophical  observers  who 
have  discovered  and  described  the  situation  profess  to  think 
that  territorial  expansion  can  be  prevented  by  carefully 
reasoned  demonstrations — by  showing  that  a  colonial  policy 
is  likely  to  undermine  republican  institutions,  destroy  the 
simplicity  of  American  society,  and  conduct  us  on  the  down- 
ward road  to  that  world  of  shadows  where  flit  the  historic 
ghosts  of  Carthage  and  the  Roman  Empire. 

All  this  would  be  highly  amusing  if,  as  was  said  a  moment 
ago,  it  were  not  so  near  the  truth.  For,  in  fact,  these  de- 
scriptions of  the  American  people  are  caricatures  rather  than 
malicious  inventions.  Queer  distortions  as  they  are,  the 
truth  is  yet  visible  in  them,  as  were  the  features  of  Tweed 
and  Sweeny  in  Thomas  Nast's  cartoons  in  the  days  of  the 
great  New  York  City  ring. 

The  truth  that  underlies  the  caricature  is  simply  this :  the 
American  population  of  seventy  million  or  more  souls  is  at 
this  moment  the  most  stupendous  reservoir  of  seething  energy 
to  be  found  on  any  continent.  Already  it  has  accomplished 
marvels  of  material  civilization,  of  governmental  organization, 
of  education,  and  even  of  scientific  discovery.  Let  any  reader 
of  Mr.  Wallace's  "Wonderful  Century,"  glancing  again 
through  its  pages,  ask  himself  what  proportion  of  the  achieve- 


274  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ments  therein  recorded  are  to  be  credited  to  America  and 
Americans,  and  he  will  see  a  revelation  compared  with  which 
the  Apocalypse  is  tame.  And  yet  it  is  practically  certaiii 
that  all  the  things  that  the  American  has  done  are  but 
earnest  of  the  things  that  he  is  to  do.  If  in  the  coming 
centuries  this  reservoir  of  energy  can  discharge  itself  in 
enterprise,  in  investigation  and  discovery,  it  can  do  more 
for  the  advancement  of  the  human  race  than  imagination  can 
now  conceive.  If,  by  any  mistaken  policy,  it  is  denied  an 
outlet,  it  may  discharge  itself  in  anarchistic,  socialistic,  and 
other  destructive  modes  that  are  likely  to  work  incalculable 
mischief. 

This  volume  of  human  enterprise  is  not  altogether  made 
up  of  reasonableness,  far-seeing  wisdom,  and  stainless 
morality.  It  is  as  heterogeneous  as  it  is  vast.  The  mill- 
ions of  human  beings  who  have  come  to  our  shores  from 
foreign  lands  are  not  all  assimilated  to  American  standards, 
and  their  new-found  liberty  has  not  altogether  ceased  to  be 
license.  In  those  other  millions  who  are  descended  from  an 
earlier  American  stock,  the  primitive  human  passions  have 
not  been  brought  under  absolute  control,  and  the  love  of 
primitive  occupations  that  partake  of  danger  has  not  been 
eradicated.  Let  us  not  forget  that  no  population  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  is  so  largely  descended  from  daring  adventurers. 
It  is  not  yet  three  hundred  years  since  the  colonists  of  our 
eastern  coasts  were  performing  their  daily  industrial  tasks 
under  the  shadow  of  ever-threatening  danger  from  savage 
foes.  It  is  not  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  since  the  pioneers 
of  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  valleys  were  making  clearings 
in  the  wilderness  during  intervals  of  exterminating  warfare. 
It  is  not  yet  fifty  years  since  the  later  pioneers  of  the  western 
plains  were  crossing  a  pathless  desert,  in  caravans  that  left 
a  trail  of  bleacliing  bones  to  mark  a  route  for  those  who 
should  follow  them  to  the  El  Dorado  of  the  West.  Are  we 
to  suppose  that  the  offspring  of  such  men,  in  so  short  an 
interval,  have  lost  those  instincts  that  lead  men  to  prefer 
enterprises  that  call  for  physical  courage  and  resourcefulness  ? 
It  is  not  true  that  we  are  a  nation  of  jingoes.     It  is  not  true 


IMPERIALISM  275 

that  we  desire  war  for  the  sake  of  war,  or  that  in  our  sports 
we  prefer  methods  that  are  adapted  to  inflict  injury.     But 
it  is  true  that  we  are  a  nation  endowed  with  exceptional 
courage,  that  we  heartily  despise  physical  cowardice  and  all 
manner  of  weakness.     It  is  true  that  we  are  restless  under 
the  disappearance  of  opportunity  for  adventure  and  daring , 
enterprise.     It  is  therefore  certain  that,   more   than   most  I 
nations,  we  are  liable  to  an  outbreak  of  warlike  spirit  under 
what  we  conceive  to  be  real  provocation ;  and  that  no  other 
nation  is  so  likely  as  ours  to  turn  itself  into  great  armies  5 
and  to  fight  with  an  indomitable  determination  to  conquer,  \ 
when  it  is  once  convinced  of  the  justice  of  its  cause. 

The  same  impulses,  directed  into  peaceful  channels,  have 
produced  the  American  commercial  spirit.  The  love  of  risk 
and  of  great  responsibilities  characterizes  our  industrial  and 
commercial  undertakings  to  a  degree  unknown  in  any  other 
country.  The  perfectly  safe  small  business  does  not  appeal 
to  the  native  American  mind.  This  may  be  unfortunate ;  but 
we  are  not  now  discussing  merits  and  demerits,  but  only 
the  actual  facts  and  forces  that  are  controlling  our  policy. 
Throughout  the  Eastern  states,  and  with  somewhat  lesser 
rapidity  in  the  West,  small  farming,  shopkeeping,  and  minor 
manufacturing  of  the  absolutely  safe  kind  are  falling  into 
the  hands  of  the  immigrant  population  of  French-Canadian, 
German,  and  Italian  extraction.  A  few  years  ago  the  Massa- 
chusetts Bureau  of  Statistics  of  Labor  published  an  interesting 
investigation,  showing  that  in  New  England  the  early  factory 
population  of  American  birth  really  had  not  been  displaced 
by  the  Irish,  French-Canadian,  and  Polish  immigrants,  but 
had  voluntarily  left  the  factory  occupations  to  engage  in  more 
remunerative  pursuits,  calling  for  greater  enterprise,  greater 
personal  initiative,  and,  withal,  greater  risk.  No  other 
people  in  the  world  has  experimented  on  so  costly  a  scale 
with  new  mechanical  inventions.  No  other  people  has  taken 
such  gigantic  risks  of  railway  construction,  with  so  little  aid 
from  the  taxpayer.  No  other  people  has  shown  such  eager- 
ness to  rebuild  on  a  larger  scale  both  old  and  new  cities, 
displacing  the  three  and  four  story  office  buildings  of  ten 


276  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

yeara  ago  with  modern  sky-scrapers,  reckless  of  the  proba- 
bility that  much  floor  space  would  long  remain  unrented. 
No  other  people  has  shown  so  comprehensive  a  grasp  of  busi- 
ness possibilities  in  the  organization  of  combinations  and 
trusts.  This  trait  of  character  has  created  also  our  social 
standards.  It  was  through  no  mere  whim  or  caprice  that  the 
aristocracy  of  Boston  a  generation  ago  consisted  chiefly  of 
families  that  had  made  their  fortunes  in  the  East  India  trade. 
That  was  the  business  that  called  for  daring  and  range  of 
thought,  as  did  the  military  expeditions  which  created  the 
earlier  aristocracies  of  Europe.  And  the  newer  American 
aristocracy  of  to-day,  which  Professor  Peck  has  entertainingly 
described,!  is  in  reality  founded  on  the  same  principle.  If, 
among  families  equally  well-to-do  and  not  unequal  in  cul- 
tivation, some  are  admitted  to  the  reigning  social  set,  while 
others  seem  to  be  arbitrarily  excluded,  we  shall  usually  find 
the  explanation  in  the  character  of  the  business  by  which 
fortune  was  acquired. 

Nevertheless,  all  this  American  love  of  adventure,  struggle, 
and  risk  is  astonishingly  held  within  certain  bounds.  The 
restraining  influence  is  the  dominant  Puritan  spirit  in  our 
morals  and  religion.  However  much  we  may  despise  the 
timid  man  and  covet  the  opportunities  for  dogged  endurance 
and  personal  heroism  which  war  offers,  however  much  we 
may  admire  the  business  man  who  successfully  achieves  great 
combinations  in  the  market,  we  do  not  deliberately  or  will- 
ingly enter  upon  war  or  upon  commercial  speculation  unless 
plausible  excuses  can  be  offered  to  the  Puritan  conscience. 
Perhaps  we  are  aggressive ;  but  we  do  not  like  to  be  regarded 
as  ruthlessly  or  indecently  aggressive.  We  produce  every  year 
a  crop  of  speculators  and  promoters  whose  fit  habitation  is  the 
penitentiary;  but  the  great  mass  of  the  people  really  abliors 
dishonest  conduct  in  business ;  and  it  is  more  than  doubtful 
whether,  in  any  other  nation,  commercial  credit  rests  so 
largely  upon  a  secure  foundation  of  personal  integrity. 

Let  us  now  see  how  these  truths  apply  to  the  events  of  the 
past  summer.  Are  we  to  suppose  that  a  people  wholly  unapt 
^  In  the  Cosmopolitan,  September,  1898. 


IMPERIALISM  277 

for  war,  and  altogether  loath  to  enter  upon  military  enter- 
prises, was  suddenly  transformed  into  a  military  nation  by 
the  mere  accident  of  the  destruction  of  a  battleship  in  the 
harbor  of  Havana  and  by  the  diligence  of  yellow  journals  in 
reiterating  a  cry  for  vengeance?  Are  we  to  suppose  that  a 
people  entirely  satisfied  with  its  present  territory  and  com- 
mercial opportunities  has,  by  the  mere  accident  of  a  few 
fortunate  naval  engagements,  been  converted  into  a  nation 
bent  upon  projects  of  world  empire  ?  Only  those  who  are  ' 
blind  to  the  true  character  of  the  American  people  and  forget 
or  disregard  innumerable  events  antecedent  to  the  Spanish 
War  can  answer  these  questions  in  the  affirmative.  The 
warlike  spirit  existed  long  before  the  destruction  of  the 
Maine;  and  the  demand  for  new  outlets  for  both  commercial 
enterprise  and  political  ingenuity  was  already  insistent  many 
years  before  the  battle  of  Manila  Bay.  More  than  once  in 
the  past  twenty-five  3'ears  the  people  of  this  country  have 
been  in  a  state  of  mind  that  would  have  resulted  in  a  declara- 
tion of  war,  if  only  the  occasion  had  been  one  that  they  could 
conscientiously  regard  as  adequate.  The  war  feeling  was 
strong  in  1891,  when  our  seamen  had  been  attacked  in 
Valparaiso  and  the  North  Atlantic  squadron  was  despatched 
to  the  coast  of  South  America.  Still  stronger  was  the  war 
feeling  that  arose  during  the  years  of  our  misunderstandings 
with  Great  Britain  over  the  Canadian  and  the  Behrino-  Sea 
fisheries  and  culminated  in  the  Venezuelan  boundary  trouble. 
It  is  within  the  personal  knowledge  of  the  writer  that,  less 
than  six  months  ago,  a  prominent  member  of  the  United 
States  Senate  said,  in  this  city,  that  he  voiced  the  opinion 
of  many  of  the  most  influential  classes  of  the  Mississippi 
Valley  in  declaring  that  the  British  Empire  ought  to  ])e 
blotted  from  the  map  of  the  world !  The  remark  was  absurd ; 
and  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the  people  of  tlie 
Mississippi  Valley  entertained  any  such  opinion.  But  the 
remark  undoubtedly  did  reflect  an  angry  feeling  prevalent 
throughout  the  country,  which  might  easily  have  grown  to 
serious  proportions.  I  believe  that  the  real  reason  why 
nothing  came  of  that  anger,  and  why  no  serious  results  fol- 


278  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

lowed  the  Chilean  episode,  was  the  deep  underlying  con- 
scientiousness of  the  American  people.  Angry  as  they  were, 
and  ready  as  they  were  to  fight,  if  fighting  were  necessary, 
they  could  not  enter  upon  war  without  at  least  the  semblance 
of  moral  reason.  They  required  more  than  the  thirst  for 
vengeance,  more  than  the  love  of  adventure,  more  than  the 
desire  for  commercial  opportunity:  they  had  to  find  a  pre- 
text that  appealed  either  to  their  sympathies  or  to  their  sense 
of  justice. 

In  like  manner,  a  desire  for  the  extension  of  commercial 
and  political  opportunities  existed  before  the  beginning  of 
the  war  with  Spain,  and  manifested  itself  in  questionable 
and  even  dangerous  forms.  Let  the  reader  glance  over  the 
files  of  the  leading  reviews  and  magazines  from  1886  to  1896 ; 
let  him  dip  into  the  books  and  monographs  of  the  same  decade 
that  dealt  with  the  group  of  questions  centring  about  the 
Monroe  doctrine ;  and  he  will  discover  that  a  strong  feeling 
was  developing  throughout  the  interior,  and  in  the  South,  in 
favour  of  a  policy  that  should  bring  the  United  States  into 
closer  relations  with  the  Spanish-American  republics,  and 
should  ignore  commercial  and  political  relations  with  the  rest 
of  the  world.  The  silver  question  was  intimately  bound  up 
with  this  idea.  It  was  said  that  the  United  States,  acting 
with  the  South  American  governments,  could  establish  a 
coinage  that  need  have  no  relation  whatever  to  the  monetary 
systems  administered  from  London.  It  was  argued  that  we 
could  build  up  on  the  American  continent  a  little  inter- 
national world  of  our  own,  and  let  the  effete  commerce  of 
the  Eastern  Hemisphere  dwindle  to  its  plainly  foreseen 
extinction.  The  Bureau  of  American  Republics  was  the 
administrative  embodiment  of  this  grotesque  idea;  and  the 
free  silver  lunacy  was  nursed  and  coddled  by  it. 

If  the  foregoing  is  a  substantially  correct  description  of 
the  forces  of  character,  temperament,  idea,  and  passion  that 
are  working  out  the  development  of  American  politics,  little 
further  argument  is  needed  to  show  that  the  war  with  Spain 
was  neither  accidental  nor  merely  a  product  of  the  machina- 
tions of  self-loving  politicians.     The  Cuban  situation  gave 


IMPERIALISM  279 

the  American  people  the  first  apparently  decent  excuse  for 
fighting  that  had  been  vouchsafed  them  since  the  Civil  War. 
That  the  sufferings  of  the  Cuban  population  were  real,  was 
beyond  reasonable  doubt.  That  the  government  of  the  island 
was  thoroughly  corrupt,  no  one  denied.  That  justice  had 
long  been  little  more  than  a  name  was  currently  believed; 
and  that  years  of  bad  government  had  culminated  in  a 
deliberate  attempt  to  starve  the  reconeentrados,  was  believed 
by  practically  every  newspaper-reading  American  who  had  no 
exact  knowledge  of  political  conditions  beyond  the  borders 
of  his  own  commonwealth.  All  those  feelings  of  min- 
gled sympathy  and  anger  which  precipitated  the  Civil  War 
were  again  awakened  by  the  sufferings  of  Cuba.  With 
hardly  an  exception,  the  religious  press  insisted  that  it  was 
the  duty  of  America  to  intervene.  Thus,  there  existed  that 
peculiar  combination  of  the  moral  forces  of  sympathy  and 
conviction  with  the  inherited  love  of  dangerous  enterprise 
which,  as  I  have  attempted  to  show,  must  exist  before  the 
American  people  will  go  to  war,  but  which  is  practically 
certain,  when  it  does  exist,  to  beget  war. 

What  results  is  the  Spanish  War  likely  to  bring  in  its 
train  ?  Are  they,  on  the  whole,  likely  to  be  advantageous 
to  this  country  and  to  the  world,  or  the  reverse?  In 
attempting  to  answer  these  questions,  let  us  confine  our- 
selves to  the  observation  of  what  has  been,  what  is,  and  what 
probably  is  to  be,  leaving  the  discussion  of  what  ought  to  be 
to  those  who  feel  competent  to  undertake  it. 

For  nearly  a  generation  now,  the  economists  and  the 
substantial  business  men  of  the  United  States  have 
earnestly  desired  to  achieve  two  vitally  important  economic 
reforms. 

They  have  striven,  first  and  most  anxiously,  for  the  estab- 
lishment by  our  government  of  a  thoroughly  sound  monetary 
system,  on  a  gold  basis,  in  perfect  accord  with  the  monetary 
sytems  of  Gi'eat  Britain,  Germany,  and  other  European 
nations.  Almost  continuously,  since  the  unfortunate  issue 
of  the  legal-tender  paper  currency  of  the  Civil  War,  they 


280  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

have  been  obliged  to  contend  against  the  wildest  popular 
delusions  about  fiat  money,  state  banking,  the  free  coinage 
of  silver,  and  government  depositories  of  farm  products  and 
chattels  as  security  for  loans.  Whenever  they  have  attempted 
to  expose  and  destroy  these  delusions,  they  have  been  forced 
to  show  the  intricate  relations  of  domestic  and  foreign  trade ; 
and  they  have  been  met  by  an  assertion  which  to  the  unedu- 
cated mind  has  seemed  to  have  overwhelming  weight  —  the 
assertion  that  the  United  States  is  a  country  big  enough 
to  have  its  own  monetary  system,  no  less  than  its  own  form 
of  government  and  its  own  protected  manufactures.  "What 
have  we  to  do  with  abroad?  "  has  been  at  once  the  argument, 
the  cant,  and  the  silencing  retort  of  the  politician  and  the 
untrained  voter.  If  the  Spanish  War  has  accomplished 
nothing  else  that  can  be  pronounced  good,  it  has  apparently 
created  a  notable  popular  willingness  to  have  much  to 
do  henceforth  with  "abroad."  It  has  destroyed  the  good 
American's  naive  conviction  that  he  could  never  take  any 
great  interest  in  the  politics  or  the  commerce  of  nations  over 
sea.  It  has  brought  home  to  his  imagination,  with  over- 
whelming vividness,  the  essential  nearness  of  America,  in 
these  days  of  steam  and  electrical  communication,  to  the  coasts 
of  Europe  and  of  Asia.  The  mere  thought  of  conducting 
successful  naval  operations  at  the  extreme  limit  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean  on  one  side  of  the  world,  and  of  possibly  bombarding 
the  ports  of  Spain  on  the  other,  has  awakened  a  dormant 
sense  of  geography  that  will  never  again  permit  the  American 
voter  to  look  at  his  domestic  problems  with  the  old-time 
satisfaction  in  our  secure  isolation. 

In  the  second  place,  our  economists  and  business  men  have 
grappled  somewhat  less  earnestly,  and  yet  seriously,  with 
the  question  of  our  trade  policy.  It  has  long  been  perfectly 
clear  to  the  theoretical  economist,  and  for  many  years  it  has 
been  evident  to  business  men  of  the  wider-visioned  sort,  that 
we  cannot  continue  indefinitely  to  sacrifice  foreign  trade  to 
domestic  industry  to  the  extent  that  was  contemplated  in  the 
war  and  McKinley  tariffs.  That  American  manufactures 
were  already,  in  many  instances,  outgrowing  the  home  de- 


IMPEKIALISM  281 

mand  and,  like  our  agricultural  products,  needed  a  foreign 
market,  was  becoming  daily  more  obvious  before  the  recent 
hostilities  began.  And  yet  it  was  not  less  evident  that  a 
strong  and  deep-rooted  popular  belief  in  the  wisdom  and 
even  necessity  of  high  protection  was  still  to  be  overcome 
before  any  great  change  in  our  trade  policy  could  be  effected. 
The  real  nature  of  the  obstacle,  however,  was  discovered  by 
few  of  those  writers  and  teachers  who  believed  that,  through 
a  campaign  of  education,  through  economic  teaching  in  the 
colleges,  through  popular  discussion  and  statistical  reason- 
ing, the  American  people  in  the  course  of  time  could  be 
converted  to  the  doctrines  of  free  trade.  There  is  a  type  of 
free  trader  who  ma}^  be  described  as  a  creature  endowed  with 
reason  and  nothing  else;  and  many  of  the  American  free-trade 
teachers  were  of  this  type.  Utterly  lacking  in  imagination, 
despising  appeals  to  feeling  and  to  prejudice,  they  were 
unable  to  understand  that  the  masses  of  mankind  are  influ- 
enced far  more  by  those  things  that  appeal  to  imagination 
than  by  those  that  can  be  formulated  in  irrefragable  syllo- 
gisms. Now,  it  is  reasonably  safe  to  say  that  protectionism, 
in  its  more  extreme  forms  at  least,  has  held  the  American 
mind,  not  because  of  its  rationality,  but  because  it  has  power- 
fully appealed  to  the  lively  imagination  and  to  the  personal 
feelings  of  the  average  man.  What  was  absolutely  necessary 
to  make  the  policy  of  trade  expansion  as  popular  as  protection 
had  been,  was  some  circumstance  or  train  of  events  to  bring 
the  possibilities  of  foreign  commerce  before  the  popular 
imagination  and  to  associate  foreign  trade  with  feelings  of  a 
more  or  less  dramatic  quality.  It  was  not  until  a  similar 
appeal  to  imagination  and  to  feeling  was  made  in  England 
that  the  repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws  and  the  gigantic  expansion 
of  England's  foreign  trade  became  possible.  There  was 
never  any  good  reason  to  suppose  that  a  similar  change  could 
occur  in  the  United  States  without  a  similar  cause.  That 
cause  has  now  come  into  operation  as  a  result  of  our  brill- 
iantly successful  operations  in  Cuba  and  in  the  Far  East. 
For  the  first  time  in  our  history,  foreign  trade  has  taken  on 
colour  and  acquired  dramatic  interest.     The  average  voter  no 


282  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

longer  thinks  of  it  in  terms  of  Treasury  statistics.  It  has 
become  definitely  associated  in  his  imagination  with  the 
annexation  of  tropical  islands,  the  populations  of  which 
have  suddenly  interested  him  and  the  resources  of  which  are 
new  objects  of  his  thought;  with  brilliant  naval  victories  in 
the  waters  of  Manila  Bay  and  of  Santiago;  with  the  relation 
of  the  Philippine  Islands  to  the  rest  of  the  Far  East ;  to  the 
destinies  of  China  and  to  the  limitless  possibilities  of  com- 
mercial enterprise  that  attend  the  awakening  of  the  Orient. 
Never  again  will  the  protectionist  be  able  to  address  the  same 
kind  of  an  American  mind  as  in  the  past.  Never  again  will 
he  be  able  to  pass  off  his  highly  coloured  pictures  of  prosperity 
■under  a  McKinley  tariff  against  a  mere  array  of  carefully 
constructed  arguments  directed  upon  him  by  the  free 
trader.  In  coming  days  he  must  address  himself  to  minds 
already  filled  with  visions  of  dramatic  complications  with 
foreign  powers,  and  of  a  prosperity  based  upon  colonial 
possessions. 

The  same  psychological  considerations  apply  to  the  ques- 
tion whether  we  shall  retain  the  Philippine  Islands,  or  merely 
attempt  to  dictate  their  trade  policy  after  they  are  restored 
to  Spain  or  allowed  to  pass  into  the  hands  of  some  other 
European  power.  It  may  be  asked:  Will  not  the  fact  that 
by  conquest  and  occupation  we  have  already  made  ourselves 
familiar  with  their  commercial  value,  be  a  sufficient  stimulus 
to  our  trade  with  them,  if  only  we  insist  that  their  ports 
shall  not  be  closed  to  us  or  opened  on  better  terms  to  other 
nations  ?  Have  not  our  statisticians  and  commercial  journals 
shown  that  our  trade  with  China  is  great  already,  and 
increasing;  and  will  it  not  be  all-sufficient  if  we  join  with 
Great  Britain  in  her  demand  for  the  open  door?  Unquestion- 
ably the  open  door  is  all  that  we  really  need  for  the  further 
development  of  our  Oriental  trade.  But  exactly  here  lies 
the  difficult}';  and  here  is  the  danger,  so  far  as  our  economic 
interests  are  concerned,  of  throwing  away  our  present  ojjpor- 
tunity  to  perpetuate  our  sovereignty  in  the  Eastern  Archi- 
pelago. It  is  one  thing  to  say  that  we  can  take  a  firm  stand 
upon  the  question  of  the  freest  commercial  opportunities  in 


IMPERIALISM  283 

the  East,  and  another  thing,  possibly,  to  take  the  stand  and 
to  maintain  it.  In  these  matters,  nations  are  like  indi- 
viduals. Their  policies  are  determined,  not  by  syllogisms, 
but  by  concrete  facts.  The  demand  for  liberal  trade  oppor- 
tunities in  the  East  will  not  be  respected  by  China  and  her 
great  overlord,  Russia,  merely  because  we  are  able  to  show 
how  valuable  such  privileges  have  been  and  may  become  to 
them  and  to  ourselves.  They  will  think  of  us  as  our  pro- 
tectionists have  thought  of  them  and  of  Europe  —  as  a  people 
afar  off ;  and  they  will  yield  a  more  attentive  ear  to  powers 
that,  in  delusive  perspective,  seem  to  be  more  important 
because  they  are  nearer.  All  history  points  to  the  conclusion 
that  in  no  way  can  we  make  our  demand  for  greater  trade 
facilities  in  the  East  so  effective  as  by  maintaining  our 
sovereignty  over  some  territory,  however  small,  in  that 
quarter  of  the  world.  If  we  have  possessions  there,  if  we 
have  difficulties  and  responsibilities  to  meet  there,  our  own 
attention  will  not  be  withdrawn  from  the  opportunities  there 
offered;  and  the  Oriental  powers  will  not  themselves  forget 
our  existence  and  our  resources.  In  short,  unless  we  are 
prepared  to  see  the  Oriental  trade  that  we  now  enjoy  slip 
out  of  our  hands,  and  unless  we  are  oblivious  to  the  possi- 
bilities of  its  increase,  we  probably  must  retain  possession  of 
some  territory  in  the  Western  Pacific.  Possession  of  the 
Philippine  Islands  will  afford  us  the  exact  sort  of  reason,  or 
the  exact  kind  of  excuse,  that  will  appeal  to  the  Oriental 
mind  and  to  the  European  powers,  when  we  are  forced  to 
protest  against  any  policy  of  exclusiveness  in  that  quarter  of 
the  world. 

These  psychological  considerations  apply  also  to  our  place 
and  part  in  another  vast  economic  development,  in  which  our 
possession  of  Puerto  Rico,  our  possible  annexation  at  some 
later  time  of  Cuba,  our  already  accomplished  annexation  of 
Hawaii,  and  our  possible  retention  of  the  Philippine  Islands 
give  us  a  new  and  wider  interest.  This  is  the  development 
of  the  economic  possibilities  of  the  tropics.  Those  who  have 
not  read  the  recently  published  monograph  by  Mr.  Benjamin 
Kidd,  on  "  The  Control  of  the  Tropics,"  have  missed  the  most 


284  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

significant  contribution  to  political  economy,  in  the  wide  sense 
of  the  word,  that  has  recently  been  made.  Mr.  Kidd  marshals 
an  array  of  figures  which,  although  for  years  past  perfectly 
accessible  to  the  general  reader  and  familiar  to  many  students 
of  trade  reports,  had  failed  to  tell  their  full  story  until  this 
writer  took  them  in  hand.  He  shows  that  of  Great  Britain's 
foreign  commerce,  amounting  in  1896  to  £738,000,000,  no 
less  than  £138,000,000  was  an  exchange  between  the  United 
Kingdom  and  tropical  regions;  and  that  the  proportion 
of  tropical  trade  is  steadily  increasing.  In  the  foreign 
commerce  of  the  United  States,  amounting  in  1895  to 
81,538,000,000,  no  less  than  $346,000,000  was  a  trade  in 
tropical  commodities.  Yet,  great  as  it  is  already,  the  pro- 
duct of  the  tropics  is  insignificant  in  comparison  with  what 
it  may  become  under  the  more  intelligent  direction  of  the 
white  races.  It  has  been  abundantly  demonstrated,  however, 
that  the  white  races  can  never  colonize  the  strictly  tropical 
portions  of  the  world;  and  if  the  vast  possibilities  of  the 
torrid  zone  are  to  be  developed  for  the  benefit  of  mankind, 
one  of  two  alternative  policies  must  boldly  and  definitely  be 
chosen.  Either  the  tropics  must  be  held  by  northern  nations 
as  plantations,  to  be  exploited  remorselessly  in  the  old- 
fashioned  way  for  the  benefit  of  their  owners,  without  regard 
to  the  well-being  of  their  native  populations ;  or  they  must 
be  held  as  territorial  possessions,  to  be  governed  firmly,  in 
the  interest  both  of  the  world  at  large  and  of  their  own 
native  inhabitants,  by  administrative  agents  appointed  and 
directed  by  the  home  governments  of  the  northern  nations. 
In  the  latter  case,  the  white  oflficials  will  be  appointed  for 
such  terms  as  may  be  found  expedient,  in  view  of  the  strain 
that  tropical  life  imposes  upon  the  white  man's  constitution. 
Mr.  Kidd  makes  an  argument,  convincing  to  any  reasonable 
mind,  that  the  second  of  these  policies  is  the  one  which  the 
conscience  and  tlie  judgment  of  the  English-speaking  race 
will  ultimately  approve  and  adopt.  The  task  of  governing 
from  a  distance  the  inferior  races  of  mankind  will  be  one  of 
great  difTiculty  —  one  that  will  tax  every  resource  of  intellect 
and  character;  but  it  is  one  that  must  be  faced  and  overcome, 


IMPERIALISM  285 

if  the  civilized  world  is  not  to  abandon  all  hope  of  continuing 
its  economic  conquest  of  the  natural  resources  of  the  globe. 
Is  it  extravagant  to  say  that  the  English-speaking  people 
will  not  be  discouraged  by  the  difficulty,  and  that  it  will 
regard  as  preposterous  any  suggestion  to  turn  aside  from  the 
natural  course  of  economic  evolution  ?  Is  it  not  a  foregone 
conclusion  that  the  United  States,  having  at  length  been 
brought,  as  England  many  years  ago  was  brought,  face  to 
face  with  this  problem  in  its  practical  form,  will  make  pre- 
cisely the  choice  that  England  made ;  and  that  it  will  reso- 
lutely give  its  attention  to  the  task  of  doing  its  share  in  that 
attempt  to  bring  tropical  regions  under  efficient  government 
and  a  sound  industrial  organization,  which  is  the  only 
ultimate  possibility  to  be  thought  of  by  humane  and  far- 
seeing  men? 

I  have  indicated  the  chief  economic  advantages  that  we 
may  reasonably  hope  to  achieve  in  consequence  of  our  war 
with  Spain.  Of  another  benefit  which  apparently  we  are  to 
reap  —  that,  namely,  of  a  good  understanding  and  friendly 
alliance  with  Great  Britain  —  I  need  not  speak.  Among 
the  bitterest  opponents  of  all  that  has  been  done,  none  is 
found  who  does  not  rejoice  that  at  last  we  recognize  our 
kinsmen  over  sea  as  our  brethren  and  as  our  co-workers  in 
the  tasks  of  civilization. 

Are  we,  then,  to  close  our  eyes  to  that  other  side  of  the 
picture  which  has  been  so  clearly  drawn  by  conservative 
writers,  who  have  pointed  out  the  grave  political  dangers 
that  our  republic  may  incur  if  we  enter  upon  a  policy  of 
territorial  expansion?  Is  it  not  more  than  possible  that  the 
economic  advantages  which  have  here  been  suggested,  and 
even  the  good  understanding  with  Great  Britain,  for  which 
every  true  American  is  profoundly  thankful,  may  be  bought 
at  too  dear  a  price  ?  Assuredly,  no  sane  man  will  deny  that 
this  may  indeed  prove  to  be  the  case.  It  would  be  childish 
to  ignore  the  great  probability  that  for  many  years  to  come 
the  government  of  any  island  territories  that  we  may  annex 
will  be  corrupt,  and  perhaps  even  more  scandalous  than 
anything  that  we  have  hitherto  known  within  our  present 


286  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

boundaries.  We  cannot  expect  that  civil-service  reformers 
will  be  permitted  to  dictate  appointments,  or  that  pure  states- 
manship will  frame  legislation  and  administrative  policies. 
Indeed,  there  is  every  reason  to  expect  that  political  adven- 
turers of  the  most  disreputable  sort  will  find  such  opportuni- 
ties as  they  have  not  enjoyed  since  the  days  of  Reconstruction, 
in  the  South.  Corruption  and  scandals,  then,  we  may  expect ; 
but  is  this  all  that  we  may  look  for? 

It  is  a  commonplace  of  popular  philosophy  and  a  sound 
principle  of  statecraft  that  responsibility  is  a  powerful 
moralizing  influence,  and  that  it  often  develops  the  highest 
qualities  of  character  in  men  of  whom  little  but  evil  has 
been  anticipated.  Some  of  the  best  administrations  that  our 
country  has  enjoyed  have  been  conducted  by  men  who,  before 
their  assumption  of  the  high  duties  of  the  presidential  office, 
were  known  only  as  machine  politicians  of  the  baser  sort. 
Outlying  possessions  will  compel  us,  as  nothing  hitherto  has 
done,  to  respect  the  opinions,  the  manners,  and  the  interests 
of  other  nations.  They  will  continually  involve  us  in  com- 
plications from  which  we  can  hope  to  emerge  unscathed  only 
by  the  utmost  exercise  of  tact  and  knowledge.  They  will 
enforce  the  steady  improvement  of  our  diplomatic  and  con- 
sular service.  During  the  last  six  months  the  affairs  of  our 
Department  of  State  have  been  conducted  by  men  who  would 
not  for  a  moment  have  been  thought  of  for  such  services  had 
not  imperative  necessity  compelled  the  administration  to 
resort  to  expert  knowledge.  Is  it,  then,  fanciful  to  assume 
that  our  new  possessions  will,  in  the  long  run,  effectively 
demand  appointments  of  the  same  high  character?  Not  all 
this  beneficial  reaction  of  political  contact  with  the  larger 
world  will  be  accomplished  immediately,  or  even  in  a  genera- 
tion. Moral  evolution  and  the  perfecting  of  government  are 
slow  processes ;  but  they  are  always  to  be  expected  under  the 
continuing  pressure  of  necessity.  Nations,  like  individuals, 
improve  both  their  morals  and  their  manners  when  they  have 
no  alternative. 

Therefore,  so  far  from  despairing  of  the  republic,   if  we 
enter  into  more  complicated  and  more  delicate  relations  to 


IMPERIALISM  287 

world  politics,  we  may  rather  anticipate  that  the  change  will 
prove  to  be  precisely  what  was  needed,  and  that  our  new 
responsibilities  will  operate  more  surely  and  more  continu- 
ously than  any  other  influences  to  improve  the  morale  and 
the  wisdom  of  American  administration.  In  this  belief  we 
are  supported  by  the  experience  of  British  colonial  govern- 
ment. As  every  student  of  history  knows,  the  age  of  Wal- 
pole  was  marked  by  corruption  greater  and  apparently  more 
irremediable  than  any  which  we  have  yet  known  in  American 
political  life.  Who  could  have  predicted  that,  after  a  century 
of  continuous  territorial  expansion,  with  a  correspondingly 
rapid  multiplication  of  official  positions,  the  administrative 
side  of  British  government,  instead  of  becoming  hopelessly 
incapable  under  the  increasing  strain,  would  have  become 
the  purest  and  most  nearly  perfect  mechanism  thus  far  known 
in  political  history?  Have  we,  then,  any  right  to  despair 
of  our  own  experiment,  under  a  similar  broadening  of  oppor- 
tunities and  responsibilities?  If  we  have,  our  estimate  of 
American  character  must  be  a  sorry  one.  Great  Britain  suc- 
cessfully administers  the  governmental  affairs  and  protects 
the  economic  interests  of  populations  numbering  381,037,874 
souls,  occupying  a  territory  of  11,335,806  square  miles.  The 
islands  that  have  recently  been  annexed,  and  those  that  may 
soon  be  annexed  to  the  territory  of  the  United  States,  are 
167,753  square  miles  in  extent  and  are  inhabited  by  about 
10,000,000  people.  If  the  republican  form  of  government  is 
to  be  undermined  and  destroyed  in  a  nation  of  70,000,000  of 
the  most  resourceful,  energetic,  and,  all  in  all,  conscientious 
human  beings  that  have  yet  lived  upon  this  planet,  under 
the  strain  of  devising  and  administering  a  workable  terri- 
torial government  for  outlying  island  possessions  of  such 
modest  dimensions  as  these,  it  would  appear  that  our  estimate 
of  the  excellence  and  stability  of  republican  institutions  must 
have  been  a  grotesque  exaggeration.^ 

And  now  there  remains  one  further  consideration,  before 
completing  this  rapid  and  necessarily  superficial  survey  of 
the  forces  and  circumstances  that  are  bearing  the  American 
people  into  a  new  and  momentous  stage  of  their  political 


Uv- 


~l-f^ 


Li^U-,v,    J    'B4^^i\%l.    o.^f\.    f^<r>>^'«'^.      *i^ '»    ^^^l,rkx     (l>\.     'i«-   *- 


288  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

evolution.  Republican  institutions  may  be  destroyed  by 
internal  corruption  or  overwhelmed  by  external  force.  This 
latter  danger  has  never  been  a  real  one  for  the  American 
people ;  because,  during  our  century  of  political  experiment, 
world  politics  have  been  dominated  by  a  power  which,  not- 
withstanding the  disobedience  of  our  early  years  and  the 
cantankerous  spirit  of  our  adolescence,  has  ever  regarded  us 
with  a  certain  parental  pride  and  has  ever  wished  us  well. 
Very  different  might  have  been  our  fate  had  world  politics 
during  these  one  hundred  years  been  dominated  by  an  empire 
of  the  Napoleonic  type.  Let  us  then  soberly  ask  ourselves 
whether  we  have  any  substantial  assurance  that  the  time  has 
gone  b}''  when  political  absolutism  may  again  have  the 
ascendency  in  international  relations  ?  So  securelv  have  we 
dwelt  in  our  Western  isolation  that  we  have  almost  ceased  to 
thin^  of^ absolutism  as  a  modern  force,  or  to  rp.^a.rc\\t  as  any- 
thing  butaTsingular  survival  of  antiquity^  aS-powerless  and- 
as  picturesque  as  the  ruin  of  an  ancient  fortress.  From  this 
security  we  may  rudely  be  awakened.  Of  late  it  has  dawned 
upon  a  few  outreaching  minds  that  the  one  formidable  com- 
petitor of  the  liberty-loving,  English-speaking  people  of  the 
world  is  that  gigantic  nation  of  the  North,  whose  political 
organization  is  still  absolutely  autocratic  and  whose  teeming 
millions  of  inhabitants  are,  for  the  most  part,  a  superstitious, 
ignorant  multitude,  who  bow  to  authority  with  unquestion- 
ing submission.  The  rapidity  with  which  that  nation  is 
extending  its  territorial  possessions  and  influence  indicates 
that  its  statesmen  are  restrained  by  no  such  fears  of  the 
inlierent  weakness  of  empire  as  have  recently  been  voiced 
within  the  United  States.  Little  by  little  it  is  tightening 
its  grasp  ujDon  the  peoples  of  Eastern  Asia;  and  its  purpose 
stands  clearly  revealed  to  extend  its  sovereignty  and  its 
political  organization  througliout  at  least  a  great  part  of 
China.  Can  any  one  look  forward  to  the  consolidation  of  a 
Russian-Chinese  empire  without  serious  misgivings  as  to 
the  future  of  those  things  that  we  are  accustomed  to  regard 
as  the  essentials  of  civilization  ?  Certain  it  is  that  a  gigantic 
struggle  impends  between  that  empire  and  the  power  from 


IMPERIALISM  289 

which  we  have  derived  our  own  civilization  and  institutions, 
and  which  to-day  is  our  truest  friend  and  strongest  ally.  In 
the  broad  sense,  there  is  from  henceforth  but  one  real  political 
question  before  mankind.  That  question  is:  Are  world 
politics  to  be  dominated  by  English-speaking  people  in  the 
interest  of  an  English  civilization,  with  its  principles  of 
freedom,  self-government,  and  opportunity  for  all ;  or  by  the 
Russian-Chinese  combination,  with  its  policy  of  exclusive- 
ness  and  its  tradition  of  irresponsible  authority  ?  Let  us  not 
deceive  ourselves  with  any  notion  that  we  can  safely  stand 
apart  from  this  conflict.  If  we  pursue  a  course  so  selfish 
and  short-sighted,  the  probabilities  are  that  both  Great 
Britain  and  the  United  States  will  lose  commercial  oppor- 
tunities, will  sink  to  positions  of  secondary  influence,  and 
will  presently  find  themselves  obliged  to  conform  in  all  their 
policies  to  a  power  that  will  dominate  international  relations 
as  remorselessly  as  did  Csesar  or  Napoleon.  If,  on  the  con- 
trary, we  throw  our  energies  into  the  struggle  in  alliance 
with  Great  Britain,  we  need  have  little  fear  that  another 
thousand  years  of  mediaeval  night  will  fall  upon  the  Western 
world. 

Opportunity  is  ours  to  determine  the  fate  of  more  nations 
than  one.  In  the  closing  days  of  June  in  the  year  451,  on 
the  plain  of  Ch^lons-sur-Marne,  was  fought  the  most  mur- 
derous battle  that  has  occurred  within  the  Christian  era. 
An  army  of  700,000  Huns  from  Central  Asia,  apparently 
about  to  take  possession  of  the  European  coasts  and  forever 
to  extinguish  the  Latin  civilization  and  the  Christian  faith, 
was  there  opposed  by  the  united  forces  of  Aetius  and  Theod- 
oric ;  and  the  struggle  was  to  the  death.  Legendary  history 
says  that  160,000  warriors  were  left  dead  upon  the  field. 
The  remnant  of  Attila's  horde  made  its  way  back  through 
Italy,  and  at  length  to  its  Asian  home.  On  the  first  morning 
of  May  in  the  year  now  passing  into  history,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  world,  under  a  tropical  sun,  in  the  waters  of 
Manila  Bay,  was  fought  the  most  nearly  bloodless  battle  of 
any  importance  within  the  Christian  era.  Without  loss  of 
American  life,  a  fleet  of  second-class,  but  efficient  vessels 


290  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

overwhelmed  the  Spanish  naval  forces  of  the  Pacific.  But 
was  that  all  ?  The  victory  of  Chalons  forever  turned  back 
the  hordes  of  Asian  barbarism  from  their  westward  advance. 
Were  they  stopped  in  their  eastward  advance  by  the  guns  of 
Admiral  Dewey's  fleet  ?  It  is  for  the  people  of  the  United 
States  to  say.     i   | 


ih^^^yt-^  iJ^^Xt^^f 


XVIII 
THE  SURVIVAL  OF  CIVIL  LIBERTY 


XVIII 
THE   SURVIVAL   OF   CIVIL   LIBERTY 

Recent  events  have  raised  the  question  of  the  stability 
of  American  institutions.  The  war  with  Spain  was  bitterly 
deplored  by  many  educated  men,  who  feared  that  military 
activity  would  necessarily  create  arbitrary  power  and  curtail 
the  liberties  of  individual  citizens.  When  our  demand  for 
the  cession  of  the  Philippine  Islands  was  included  in  the 
terms  of  peace,  and  the  treaty  of  Paris  was  followed  by  the 
despatch  of  troops  to  Manila  to  put  down  insurrection,  these 
opponents  of  the  nation's  policy,  believing  that  their  worst 
fears  were  being  realized,  asserted  that  the  American  people, 
intoxicated  with  military  success,  were  blindly  departing 
from  all  the  safe  traditions  of  their  history  to  enter  upon  a 
hazardous  and  probably  fatal  experiment  of  imperialism. 
The  arguments  of  these  men  have  disquieted  many  timid 
souls,  some  of  whom  seem  to  be  already  convinced  that  our 
republic  is  verily  a  thing  of  history, —  one  more  splendid 
failure  added  to  the  long  list  of  glorious,  but  tragic  attempts 
of  earth's  bravest  sons  to  build  an  enduring  state  upon 
foundations  of  equality  and  sejf^goyernment.l  Indeed,  so 
despondent  have  some  of  our  self-styled  anti-imperialists 
become  that,  in  their  bitterness,  they  do  not  hesitate  to  malign 
the  character  of  their  fellow-citizens,  or  to  insult  the  fair 
fame  of  the  nation  that  has  nurtured  and  that  still  defends 
them.  In  one  lamentable  instance,  a  citizen  of  honoured  name 
has  so  far  lost  all  sense  of  reality  as  to  declare  in  a  public 
address  that  "we  are  a  great  assassin  nation,"  and  that  "the 
slaughter  of  patriots  stains  our  hands." 

And  yet,  these  proclamations  of  doom  have  failed  to  arouse 
the  nation.  Some  seventy  millions  of  people  continue  their 
daily  vocations  in  serenity  of  mind,  wliolly  unconscious  of 

293 


294  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

the  impending  extinction  of  their  liberties.  Does  this  mean 
tliat  the  plain  people,  the  bone  and  sinew  of  the  nation,  who 
hitherto  have  shown  themselves  intelligent  enough  to  deal 
wisely  and  fearlessly  with  the  gravest  issues  of  human  wel- 
fare are,  after  all,  amazingly  obtuse?  Does  it  mean  that, 
after  a  hundred  years  of  level-headed  self-government,  the 
American  people  are  now  blindly  moving  toward  a  ruin  which 
clear-sighted  men  should  plainly  foresee?  Or,  does  it  rather 
mean  that  these  millions  of  plain  people,  with  all  their  mental 
limitations,  are  still,  as  so  often  they  have  been  in  tlie  past, 
immeasurably  wiser  —  that  they  are  gifted  with  a  deeper 
insight,  that  they  are  endowed  with  a  truer  knowledge  and 
a  saner  judgment,  and  that  they  are  fortified  with  a  sturdier 
faith  —  than  are  the  prophets  of  gloom  ?  That  the  latter  is 
the  true  explanation  I  have  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  and 
for  a  brief  hour  I  ask  your  attention  to  reasons  in  support  of 
this  belief. 

And  first  of  all,  we  have  the  undeniable  fact  that  the  faith 
itself  which  the  American  people  feel  in  their  own  power,  in 
the  stability  of  their  institutions,  and  in  the  nobility  of  their 
destiny,  is  at  the  present  moment  unbounded.  Whatever 
the  pessimists  may  say,  the  millions  of  hard-working,  common 
people  do  not  believe  that  republican  government  has  failed, 
or  that  civil  liberty  is  not  to  be  the  heritage  of  their  sons. 
Never  since  the  Constitution  was  ratified  by  the  tliirteen 
original  commonw^ealths  have  tlie  American  people,  as  a 
whole,  felt  so  confident  of  tlieir  place  among  the  nations,  or 
so  sure  of  the  excellence  of  their  polity,  and  of  the  vitality 
of  their  laws  and  immunities.  Never  have  they  been  so  pro- 
foundly convinced  that  their  greatest  woj'k  for  civilization 
lies  not  in  the  past,  but  in  the  future.  They  stand  at  the 
beginning  of  the  twentietii  century,  in  their  own  minds  fully 
assured  that  the  responsibilities  which  they  are  about  to  face, 
and  that  the  achievements  which  they  expect  to  coni})letc, 
are  immeasurably  greater  than  are  those  which  have  crowned 
the  century  of  their  experiment  and  discipline. 

What,  then,  are  the  sources  of  this  faith?  Is  it  a  l)ascless 
enthusiasm,  a  thoughtless  confidence  born  of  an  ignorant 


THE   SURVIVAL   OF   CIVIL   LIBERTY  295 

conceit,  or  is  it  in  reality  a  substantial  and  truthful  forecast 
of  the  future,  which  we  may  safely  accept,  as  one  that  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  projection  into  coming  years  of 
those  lessons  that  experience  has  taught  us  in  the  past? 

The  sources  of  all  genuine  faith  in  the  future  are  two. 
The  first  is  vitality.  The  second  is  our  knowledge  of  what 
already  is  or  has  been. 

The  consciousness  of  vigorous  life,  the  sense  of  physical 
power,  imparts  to  those  who  have  it  an  unconquerable  faith 
in  their  ability  to  achieve;  and  this  mere  vitality  is  un- 
doubtedly the  primal  source  of  the  American's  faith  in  him- 
self and  in  the  destiny  of  his  country.  It  is  also  our  best 
assurance  that  the  faith  will  find  realization.  In  no  other 
population  is  tliere  such  abounding  energy,  such  inventive 
ability,  such  fearless  enterprise  as  in  the  American  people. 
Tliis  vitality  has  been  manifested  not  only  in  our  industrial 
enterprise,  but  also  in  that  very  territorial  expansion  which 
of  late  has  been  under  discussion.  From  the  Louisiana 
purchase  to  the  annexation  of  Hawaii  we  have  seized,  with 
unhesitating  promptness,  every  opportunity  to  broaden  our 
national  domain  and  to  extend  our  institutions  to  annexed 
populations.  Even  more  convincingly  has  our  vigour  been 
shown  in  the  fearlessness  with  which  the  cost  of  every  new 
responsibility  has  been  met.  "VVliether  this  cost  has  been 
paid  in  treasure  or  in  blood,  the  American  people  has  met  it 
without  one  moment's  hesitation.  Physical  courage  is,  after 
all,  the  elemental  factor  in  a  nation's  power,  the  very 
fountain-head  of  its  moral  stabilit}-  and  its  faith  ;  and  that 
in  such  courage  we  are  not  lacking,  the  recoi'ds  of  Lexington 
and  Yorktown,  of  New  Orleans  and  Chapultepec,  of  An- 
tietam  and  Gettysburg,  of  Manila  and  El  Cancy,  will  tell. 

Next  to  vitality,  and  supplementing  it,  the  basis  of  faith 
in  the  future  is  a  sound,  full  knowledge  of  the  present 
and  the  past.  The  American  people  know  facts  about 
their  own  numbers,  resources,  and  activities,  which  fully 
justify  their  belief  that  they  are  at  the  beginning,  not 
approaching  the  end,  of  their  evolution  as  a  civilized  nation. 
Only  in  a  few  spots  within  our  national  domain  does  the 


296  DEMOCRACY   AND   EMPIRE 

density  of  population  yet  approach  the  average  density  of  the 
older  European  countries.  Notwithstanding  the  rapidity 
with  which  the  best  lands  of  the  interior  and  of  the  South- 
west have  been  appropriated  as  homesteads,  the  intensive 
cultivation  of  our  vast  domain  has  hardly  begun.  While, 
according  to  the  census  of  1890,  the  states  constituting  the 
north  Atlantic  division  had  a  population  of  107  to  the  square 
mile,  the  United  States  as  a  whole  had  less  than  22  to  the 
square  mile.  The  western  division  liad  less  than  3  to  the 
square  mile;  the  great  north  central  division,  comprising 
some  of  the  most  prosperous  commonwealths  in  the  Union, 
had  less  than  30;  and  the  south  Atlantic  division,  compris- 
ing the  old  slave-owning  and  cotton-growing  states,  had 
less  than  33.  A  population  of  300,000,000,  instead  of 
75,000,000,  or  80,000,000,  would  not  seriously  tax  our 
food-producing  capacity. 

Into  this  domain  the  population  of  Europe  continues  to 
discharge  its  overflow;  and  the  stream  of  immigration  shows 
no  marked  decrease  save  in  the  exceptional  years  of  industrial 
depression.  Of  chief  significance,  however,  is  the  fact  that 
the  greater  part  of  all  the  immigration  that  we  have  thus  far 
received  has  consisted  of  the  same  nationalities  from  whose 
amalgamation  the  original  American  stock  was  produced. 
England,  Ireland,  German}'-,  and  Scandinavia  have  sent  to 
our  shores  the  greater  part  of  our  population  not  descended 
from  the  American  colonists.  Of  the  foreign-born  population 
enumerated  in  the  United  States  in  1890,  33.76  per  cent 
were  from  the  United  Kingdom,  30.11  per  cent  were  from 
(ilermany,  10.61  per  cent  from  Canada,  10.09  per  cent  from 
Norwa}',  Sweden,  and  Denmark,  1,22  per  cent  from  France, 
leaving  only  14.21  per  cent  from  all  other  countries.  The 
total  immigration  to  the  United  States  from  1821  to  the  30th 
of  June,  1898,  was  18,490,368,  and  of  this  total  much  more 
than  two-thirds  came  from  the  United  Kingdom  and  the 
Germanic  countries.  When  we  remember  that  it  was  the 
crossing  of  the  Germanic  and  the  Celtic  stocks  that  produced 
the  English  race  itself,  we  are  obliged  to  assume  that  the 
future  American  people  will  be  substantially  the  same  human 


THE   SURVIVAL  OF  CIVIL  LIBERTY  297 

stuff  that  created  the  English  common  law,  founded  parlia- 
mentary institutions,  established  American  self-government, 
and  framed  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 

All  our  knowledge  of  social  evolution  compels  us  to  believe 
that  a  nation  which  has  not  yet  begun  to  reach  the  limit  of 
its  resources  and  which  is  thus  still  receiving  great  additions 
to  its  population  by  an  immigration  of  elements  that,  for  the 
most  part,  are  readily  assimilated  to  the  older  stock,  is  one 
which,  if  no  overwhelming  catastrophe  prevent^;,  must  con- 
tinue for  numberless  generations  to  maintain  and  to  perfect 
its  civilization. 

Nevertheless,  it  may  be  said,  the  institutions  of  civil  lib- 
erty presuppose  something  more  than  a  vigorous  and  growing 
population  that  has  an  unbounded  faith  in  its  own  abilities 
and  destinies.  Great  peoples  have  given  themselves  over  to 
policies — not  to  say  to  crazes — that  have  resulted  in  the 
destruction  of  their  primitive  liberties  and  in  the  complete 
transformation  of  their  institutions.  An  energetic  people 
may  devote  itself  to  the  production  of  wealth  or  to  military 
achievements,  and  neglect  the  less  alluring  task  of  perfect- 
ing and  protecting  individual  rights.  Rome  conquered  the 
world,  but  at  the  cost  of  her  republican  simplicity.  Flor- 
ence and  Venice  achieved  wealth  and  splendour,  but  bowed 
to  despotism.  France  overran  Europe  with  her  armies,  and 
then  enthroned  her  own  military  dictator. 

These  lessons  of  history  are  often  recalled,  and  their  appli- 
cation to  American  conditions  has  often  been  attempted.  I 
think  it  is  high  time  to  protest  that,  in  scientific  strictness, 
these  lessons  do  not  apply  to  ourselves  in  any  important 
particular.  The  historian  by  this  time  should  understand 
the  truth  (which  the  students  of  physical  science  in  our 
generation  have  so  completely  mastered)  that  like  antece- 
(lents  have  like  consequents  lohen  all  conditions  remain  un- 
cha7iged,  but  that,  when  all  conditions  are  changed,  like 
antecedents,  with  unerring  certainty,  are  followed  by  unlike 
consequents.  Very  slightly,  indeed,  do  the  conditions  of 
American  life  to-day  reproduce  the  conditions  of  Roman, 
Florentine,  Venetian,  or  Parisian  history. 


298  DEMOCRACY   AND   EMl'IRE 

The  overwhelming  difference  is  this :  In  the  earlier  days, 
republican  institutions  were  cherished  only  here  and  there 
in  exceptional  conmiunities,  and  they  were  threatened  on 
every  hand  by  the  hosts  of  military  despotism ;  to-day  they 
are  rooted  in  unnumbered  communities,  which  only  now  and 
then  are  diverted  by  war  from  the  normal  pursuits  of  peace. 

Rome,  in  the  days  of  her  republican  freedom,  was  a  single 
local  C(jmjnunity  practically  isolated  from  any  similar  social 
organization.  Such  was  the  situation  also  of  each  of  the 
Italian  republics  and  of  Paris  after  the  Revolution;  for,  out- 
side of  Paris,  France  was  not  yet  republican.  To  undermine 
in  a  single  isolated  town  or  city  any  given  form  of  government 
and  to  substitute  for  it  something  totally  different,  has  never 
been  a  difficult  undertaking.  But  to  offset  this  fact  we  have 
the  equally  important  truth  —  one  of  the  most  important  that 
historical  sociology  discloses  —  that  nothing  is  more  difficult 
than  to  destroy  institutions  and  customs  that  are  rooted  in 
more  than  one  spot,  if  they  admit  of  being  carried  from  one 
place  to  another.  The  Roman  Republic  was  destroyed,  but 
not  the  Roman  law,  which  lives  to-day  and  is  ap2:)licd  to  the 
interests  of  millions  more  of  human  beings  than  in  the  days 
of  Julius  Ciesar.  The  Roman  Empire  was  overthrown,  but 
not  the  Roman  system  of  provincial  administration,  which  to 
this  hour,  in  its  essential  features,  is  preserved  in  the  nmnicipal 
and  departmental  governments  of  every  European  state. 

Bearing  these  truths  in  mind,  let  us  look  at  the  conditions 
presented  by  the  United  States.  Instead  of  being  a  single 
city-state,  organized  on  republican  lines,  practically  isolated 
from  any  similar  community,  and,  therefore,  defenceless 
against  any  influence  powerfully  tending  to  undermine  or 
to  destroy  it,  the  United  States  is  a  strongly  organized 
aggregate  of  thousands  of  local  re[)ublics,  each  one  of  whicli, 
practically  independent  in  its  liome  affaii's,  preserves  all  the 
traditions  of  English  civil  liberty,  of  denwc]'atic  custom,  and 
of  American  constitutional  order. 

It  is  true  that  not  all  of  these  self-governing  local  com- 
munities enjoy  that  perfect  form  of  democratic  administration 
which  was  developed  in  the  New  England  town ;  but  whether 


THE   SURVIVAL   OF   CIVIL   LIBERTY  299 

as  towns,  counties,  or  parishes,  as  incorporated  villages, 
boroughs,  or  municipalities,  practically  all  the  subdivisions 
of  the  American  commonwealths  are  self-governing  bodies 
of  one  type  or  another.  They  make  ordinances  and  elect 
magistrates,  they  raise  and  expend  revenues.  It  is  true  that 
important  modifications  of  local  government  are  now  taking 
place  throughout  the  nation.  The  concentration  of  wealth 
and  of  population  in  the  larger  cities,  the  long-continued 
depression  of  agriculture,  and  the  consequent  abandonment 
of  farming  by  large  numbers  of  country-bred  youth,  are 
bringing  about  a  certain  readjustment  of  functions  between 
state  and  township  administration.  It  is  easy  for  the  state 
to  raise  money,  increasingly  difficult  for  the  rural  town. 
Consequentl}'-,  we  see  a  disposition  to  throw  upon  the  state 
governments  a  part  of  the  burden  of  maintaining  roads  and 
bridges,  of  supporting  schools,  and  of  caring  for  the  insane 
and  other  defective  persons.  With  this  transfer  of  financial 
responsibility,  goes,  of  course,  a  transfer  of  administrative 
regulation.  To  this  extent,  it  must  be  admitted,  we  are 
witnessing  a  certain  decay  of  that  local  self-government 
which  hitherto  has  been  most  immediately  bound  up  with 
the  daily  lives  and  lesser  interests  of  the  people.  And  even 
in  the  cities  the  abuses  of  popular  power  have,  in  some 
instances,  led  to  a  transfer  of  authority  from  municipal  to 
state  governments ;  as,  for  example,  in  cities  like  Boston, 
which  no  longer  elect  or  through  their  mayors  appoint  their 
police  commissions,  but  accept  them  at  the  hands  of  the 
governor  of  the  commonwealth.  Yet,  notwithstanding  these 
facts,  it  is  certain  that  throughout  the  national  domain  the 
lesser  local  governments  still  have  great  vitality,  and  that 
no  modification  of  our  administrative  machinery  is  likely  to 
strip  them  altogether  of  their  functions.  Far  more  probable 
is  it,  that  the  limit  of  addition  to  the  duties  of  our  common- 
wealth governments  will  soon  be  reached.  Certain  func- 
tions which  in  the  past  have  been  performed  by  townships 
and  counties,  or  by  municipalities,  may  be  given  over  to 
the  states  because  they  pertain  to  matters  in  which  all  the 
people   of   the   commonwealth  are   directly  interested,   but 


300  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

other  matters  of  purely  local  interest  will  be  left  even  more 
entirely  than  now  to  the  local  administrative  organs.  States 
may  maintain  the  more  important  roads  and  bridges,  but  not 
the  lesser  ones.  They  will  care  for  the  insane,  but  probably 
not  for  the  ordinary  poor.  They  will  support  some  of  the 
higher  institutions  of  learning,  but  not,  to  any  great  extent, 
the  common  schools. 

Local  administration,  however,  is  not  the  only  or,  perhaps, 
the  most  important  means  through  which  the  traditions  of 
civil  liberty  are  maintained  in  our  American  Republic.  Of 
the  greatest  educational  influence  are  the  local  courts  and 
their  procedure.  So  long  as  every  boy  is  bound  to  learn,  not 
through  books,  but  through  the  events  that  happen  year  by 
year  in  his  own  township  or  county,  the  fundamental  tradi- 
tions of  the  common  law,  the  immunity  from  arrest  without 
a  warrant,  the  personal  responsibility  of  the  officer  of  the  law, 
the  right  of  bail  and  of  trial  by  jury,  the  right  of  free 
speech  and  of  public  meeting,  there  is  little  danger  that  the 
American  people  will  submit  tamely  to  any  arbitrary  attempt 
of  a  central  government  to  abridge  these  liberties. 

If  these  things  are  true,  then  it  is  furtlier  true  that  from 
the  traditions  and  existing  habits  of  any  one  of  these  thou- 
sands of  self-governing  local  communities,  together  com- 
posing the  United  States  of  America,  could  be  reproduced 
the  entire  fabric  of  American  polity,  if  in  every  other  one  the 
entire  constitutional  system  were  silddenly  destroyed.  This 
is  a  fact  unique  in  the  history  of  civil  liberty.  It  is  a 
guarantee  of  the  perpetuity  of  our  institutions,  so  tremendous 
that  only  the  blindest  of  pessimists  can  fail  to  appreciate  its 
significance.  Remembering  that,  as  was  said  before,  a  form 
of  law  or  type  of  institution,  or  even  a  custom,  once  rooted 
in  more  than  one  place  on  the  earth's  surface,  is  practically 
indestructible,  since  if  destroyed  in  one  it  can  always  bo 
reproduced  from  another,  it  is  impossible  to  believe  tliat  any 
modification  of  our  governmental  system,  whetlier  by  terri- 
torial expansion  or  by  military  activit}^,  whether  by  the 
growth  of  trusts  or  by  any  other  phenomenon  of  the  pursuit 
of  wealth,  can  ever,  thi'oughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 


THE  SURVIVAL  OF  CIVIL  LIBERTY  301 

our  vast  domain,  destroy  in  all  these  thousands  of  local  com- 
munities the  instincts,  the  habits,  and  the  institutions  of 
Anglo-Saxon  civil  liberty. 

Not  only  will  this  civil  liberty  be  preserved,  but  it  will 
also  be  developed.  The  heritage  of  a  nation  which,  histori- 
cally speaking,  is  yet  in  its  most  vigorous  youth,  with  gen- 
erations of  active  effort  for  the  perfection  of  civilization  yet 
before  it,  civil  liberty  will  not  be  worshipped  with  passive 
idolatry,  but,  continually  thought  about,  worked  over,  and 
enlarged  by  a  reflective  people  of  abounding  vitality  and  lim- 
itless faith  in  their  own  destiny,  it  will  be  brought  to  a  per- 
fection of  justice,  of  discrimination,  of  fairness  to  all  men  such 
as  has  not  yet  been  achieved  under  any  human  government. 

To  a  great  extent  the  task  of  all  government  —  through  its 
legislation,  its  interpretation  of  law,  and  its  administrative 
activity  —  is  to  reconcile  equality  with  liberty.  Most  of  the 
restraints  upon  liberty  are  in  the  interest  of  that  measure  of 
equality  which  experience  has  shown  to  be  necessary  to  social 
stabilit}^,  and  which  the  conscience  of  mankind  declares  to  be 
right.  The  reconciliation,  however,  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  ac- 
complish, and  all  systems  of  law  and  policy  remain  imperfect. 

The  equality  to  which  we  here  refer,  and  with  which  public 
policy  has  to  do,  is  not  an  equality  of  bodily  powers,  of  mental 
abilities,  or  of  moral  attainments.  In  these  matters  men  are 
not  and,  while  biological  evolution  continues,  cannot  be 
equal.  Only  those  writers  who  are  willing  to  misrepresent 
their  opponents  ever  attribute  to  the  founders  of  the  republic 
the  absurd  notion  that  in  these  personal  attributes  men  are 
born  equal  and  free.  The  equality  which  the  state  should 
create  and  cherish  is  that  social  condition  which  prevails 
when  a  just  government  restrains  those  who,  being  powerful, 
are  also  unscrupulous,  from  taking  any  unfair  advantage  of 
the  w^eak,  and  when  no  artificial  distinctions,  privileges,  or 
monopolies  are  created  by  the  state  itself  to  aggrandize  the 
few  by  the  impoverishment  of  the  many.  To  permit  the  in- 
telligent and  the  strong  to  profit  by  their  superiority,  so  long 
as  they  derive  their  gain  from  the  bounty  of  nature,  and  not 
from  the  enslavement  or  robbery  of  their  brethren,  is  one 


302  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

thing  ;  to  permit  or  to  encourage  them  to  use  their  superiority 
at  the  expense  of  their  fellows  is  a  totally  different  thing ;  and 
it  is  the  latter  which  is  opposed  by  the  notion  of  equality  as 
a  principle  of  civil  government. 

This  notion,  however,  is  of  slow  growth  in  the  minds  of 
men,  and  of  slower  application  to  the  concrete  facts  of  legal 
procedure,  political  status,  property,  trade,  taxation,  and  the 
employment  of  labour.  From  the  earliest  days  we  in  America 
have  proclaimed  the  principle  of  equality  before  the  law. 
All  men,  we  say,  in  natural  justice  have,  and  in  the  courts 
must  secure,  substantially  equal  rights.  Yet  we  have  not 
always  in  practice  faithfully  adhered  to  this  high  standard. 
The  poor  man  has  not  always  had  tlie  same  treatment  as  the 
rich  man,  at  the  bar  of  justice.  Juries  have  been  bribed,  and 
so  occasionally  have  been  prosecuting  attorneys  and  even 
judges.  On  the  whole,  however,  our  record  in  these  matters 
has  probably  been  higher  than  that  of  any  preceding  civiliza- 
tion in  all  human  history;  and  it  is  certain  that  tlie  moral 
forces  of  the  nation  are  conspiring  to  make  it  yet  more  satis- 
factory in  coming  years. 

Political  equality  was  not  an  original  principle  of  American 
government.  Of  the  adult  male  citizens  comprised  within  the 
population  of  less  than  four  million  souls  dwelling  in  the 
United  States  a  century  ago,  not  one  half  enjoj-cd  the  politi- 
cal suffrage.  A  majority  were  disqualified  by  lack  of  prop- 
erty or  of  education.  The  approach  to  universal  suffrage  has 
been  very  gradually  made  by  the  abolition  of  the  earlier  re- 
strictions, until  now,  in  many  of  the  commonwealths,  voters 
need  not  even  pay  a  poll-tax. 

Political  equality  in  the  long  run  means  an  attempt  to  set 
limits  to  those  inequalities  of  economic  condition  which  rap- 
idly grow  up  in  a  prosperous  state  if  the  rights  of  private 
property  are  unconditionally  extended  to  all  the  requisites  of 
production,  and  if  no  restraints  are  placed  upon  the  methods 
of  business  competition  or  of  trade  combination.  It  is  this 
question  of  the  relation  of  the  state  to  economic  inequality 
which  is  by  far  the  most  per]_)lexing  one  to  the  conscience 
and  the  judgment  of  the  patriotic  citizen.     One  immensely 


THE   SURVIVAL   OF   CIVIL   LIBERTY  303 

important  restriction  of  liberty  in  the  interest  of  equality  was 
made  at  the  foundation  of  our  government,  largely  through 
the  sagacity  and  fearlessness  of  Thomas  Jefferson,  who  did 
not  liesitate  to  antagonize  the  land-owning  aristocracy  of 
Virginia,  to  which  he  himself  belonged.  This  was  the  pro- 
hibition of  primogeniture  and  entail.  Thanks  to  this  wise 
restriction,  the  vast  estates  that  under  our  present  laws  may 
be  built  up  in  America  can  be  continued  in  the  same  families 
through  successive  generations  only  if  their  owners  have  the 
business  ability  to  use  them  productively. 

To  what  extent  we  shall  further  limit  the  freedom  of  be- 
quest and  the  right  of  private  accumulation,  no  statesman  or 
economist  has  at  this  moment  the  prescience  to  foretell.  We 
only  know  that  thousands  of  thoughtful  and  conscientious 
men  are  asking  the  question  whether  the  withdrawing  of  some 
portion  of  the  land  and  productive  capital  of  the  nation  from 
private  ownership  —  as  has  been  done  in  Australia  and  New 
Zealand  —  may  not  ultimately  be  demanded  by  natural  jus- 
tice and  a  due  consideration  for  the  highest  social  welfare. 
We  know  that  experiments  in  the  redistribution  of  taxation, 
with  the  avowed  purpose  of  placing  a  larger  share  of  public 
burdens  upon  the  owners  of  great  wealth,  are  not  likely  to 
cease  for  many  years  to  come.  At  the  same  time,  we  may  re- 
pose great  confidence  in  both  the  Puritan  conscience  and  the 
Yankee  common  sense  of  the  American  people.  Whatever 
the  difficulties  of  the  undertaking,  we  may  expect  them  to 
find  a  practical  method  for  limiting  tlie  undue  growth  of 
economic  inequality  without  discouraging  business  enterprise 
or  destroying  our  prosperity. 

Tlie  same  good  sense  and  sound  morality  may  be  expected 
to  solve  also  the  problems  arising  out  of  the  conflicts  of  indi- 
vidual liberty  with  natural  justice  in  our  business  metliods. 
Legislatures  and  courts  have  for  many  3^ears  been  earnestly 
endeavouring  to  maintain  the  old  common-law  rule  against 
combinations  in  restraint  of  trade  ;  but  just  how  morality  and 
business  expediency  are  to  be  identified  in  practice,  we  do  not 
yet  clearly  see.  Certain  it  is  that  at  the  present  moment  the 
conscience  of  the  people  is  far  in  advance  of  the  positive  law. 


304  DEMOCRACY   AND  EMPIRE 

The  law  as  yet  provides  no  way  to  punish  a  combination  that 
deliberately  crushes  a  legitimate  business,  not  by  permanently 
lowering  prices  for  the  benefit  of  consumers,  but  by  a  tempo- 
rary cut  which  is  not  to  be  maintained  after  the  rival  is 
destroyed.  Such  conduct  is  not  yet  a  crime,  but  an  unsophisti- 
cated conscience  pronounces  it  blameworthy,  from  a  moral 
point  of  view  as  wrong  as  were  the  cattle-raiding  and  castle- 
burning  exploits  of  mediasval  barons,  or  as  any  act  of  wanton 
conquest.  By  one  or  another  means  it  will  ultimately  be 
made  impossible  in  a  nation  that  values  honourable  dealing 
above  gold. 

As  among  educated  men  there  are  some  who  distrust  the 
vital  instincts  of  the  people  and  the  popular  sense  of  justice, 
so  also  are  there  some  who  deplore  the  popular  demand  for 
equality.  Blinded  by  a  culture  that  is  at  once  too  sensitive 
and  too  narrow  in  its  sympathies,  these,  men  would  persuade 
us  that  only  through  the  growth  of  economic  inequality  can 
we  create  a  splendid  art,  develop  a  profound  philosophy, 
and  attain  elegance  of  manners.  To  all  such  I  would  com- 
mend the  thoughtful  conclusions  of  that  most  cultivated,  most 
reasonable  of  modern  critics,  JMr.  Matthew  Arnold,  whose 
essays  on  "  Democracy  "  and  "  Equality  "  are,  perhaps,  the 
sanest  reflections  on  these  great  themes  that  our  age  has  pro- 
duced. It  is  not  equality,  it  is  rather  the  unchecked  gro^vth 
of  a  monstrous  inequality  that,  as  Arnold  shows,  ultimately 
destroys  all  fresh  enthusiasms,  all  spontaneous  sweetness,  all 
brightness  in  social  intercourse,  and  that  brutalizes  the  selfish 
rich  no  less  than  the  burdened  poor.  "  Can  it  be  denied,"  he 
asks,  "that  a  certain  approach  to  equality,  at  any  rate  a  cer- 
tain reduction  of  signal  inequalities,  is  a  natural,  instinctive 
demand  of  that  impulse  which  drives  society  as  a  whole  — 
no  longer  individuals  and  limited  classes  only,  but  the  mass 
of  a  community  —  to  develop  itself  with  the  utmost  possible 
fullness  and  freedom  ?  Can  it  be  denied,  that  to  live  in  a  so- 
ciety of  equals  tends  in  general  to  make  a  man's  spirits  expand, 
and  his  faculties  work  easily  and  actively;  wliile,  to  live  in 
a  society  of  superiors,  although  it  may  occasionally  be  verj^ 
good  discipline,  yet  in  general  tends  to  tame  the  spirits  and  to 


THE  SUKVIVAL  OF  CIVIL  LIBERTY  805 

make  the  play  of  the  faculties  less  secure  and  active?  Can 
it  be  denied,  that  to  be  heavily  overshadowed,  to  be  profoundly 
insignificant,  has,  on  the  whole,  a  depressing  and  benumbing 
effect  on  the  character?"  And  of  the  common  people  in 
France  he  truly  says,  that  the  economic  equality  which  was 
created  among  them  by  the  Revolution  and  the  "  Code  Napo- 
leon "  has  undoubtedly  given  to  the  lower  classes  "  a  self-respect 
and  an  enlargement  of  spirit,  a  consciousness  of  counting  for 
something  in  their  country's  action,  which  has  raised  them  in 
the  scale  of  humanity."  "  The  common  people,  in  France,"  he 
continues,  "seem  to  me  the  soundest  part  of  the  French  na- 
tion. They  seem  to  me  more  free  from  the  two  opposite 
degradations  of  multitudes,  brutality  and  servility,  to  have  a 
more  developed  human  life,  more  of  what  distinguishes  else- 
where the  cultured  classes  from  the  vulgar,  than  the  common 
people  in  any  other  country  with  which  I  am  acquainted." 

That  this  view  of  the  relation  of  equality  to  the  highest 
civilization  prevails  among  the  x\merican  people,  as  among  the 
people  of  France,  I  presume  no  one  will  seriously  question. 
At  the  same  time,  the  American  is  more  assertive,  more 
self-reliant,  more  intolerant  of  any  unnecessary  limitation 
of  his  personal  liberty  than  is  the  man  of  Gallic  blood.  The 
American  is  at  bottom  a  Saxon-Norman.  After  all  it  is  the 
blood  of  the  old  untamable  pirates  that  courses  through  his 
veins.  Consequently,  he  will  continue  to  struggle  with  this 
practical  problem  of  the  conciliation  of  liberty  with  equality. 
This  problem  will  continue  to  furnish  the  fundamental  ques- 
tions of  his  politics  ;  and  he  will  gradually  solve  it,  not  by  the 
elaboration  of  an  abstract  theory,  but  by  a  practical  dealing 
with  concrete  cases  as  they  arise.  Just  as  our  law  is  devel- 
oped largely  through  the  evolution  of  equity,  wherein  a  larger 
and  sounder  justice  is  made  to  override  precedents  and  tech- 
nicalities that  have  ceased  to  be  a  true  expression  of  living 
conditions,  so  shall  our  politics  also  develop  through  the  evo- 
lution of  a  larger  equity,  which,  passing  the  bounds  of  the 
equity  known  to  lawyers  and  the  courts,  shall  be  nothing  less 
than  a  fundamental  policy,  expressive  of  the  best  conscience 
and  judgment  of  the  nation. 


306  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

The  great  task,  then,  which  I  foresee  for  the  American 
people  in  the  coming  centuries,  and  which  I  believe  is  to  be 
its  supreme  contribution  to  civilization,  is  the  creation  of  this 
larger  equity,  and  its  perfect  expression  and  guarantee  in  the 
institutions  of  civil  liberty.  It  is  to  be  the  task  of  the  Ameri- 
can people,  rather  than  of  any  other  nation,  because  in  no  other 
nation  are  combined  so  many  of  the  forces  and  conditions  nec- 
essary for  its  perfect  achievement.  No  other  great  nation  is 
still  so  young,  so  vigorous,  in  possession  of  so  exhaustless  a 
fund  of  energy  for  great  undertakings.  In  no  other  nation 
are  the  people  in  reality  so  democratic.  In  no  other  is  the 
sense  of  equality  in  reality  so  strong.  In  no  other  is  the  in- 
dividual so  assertive,  so  little  likely  to  surrender  his  privilege 
of  free  initiative,  and  to  make  himself  a  mere  creature  of  the 
state.  But  chiefly  is  this  task  committed  to  Ameiica  because 
in  no  other  people  is  so  strongly  developed  that  spirit  of  help- 
fulness, of  human  brotherhood,  which  alone  will  suffice  to 
make  the  reconciliation  of  equality  with  liberty  complete  and 
lasting.  As  yet  no  other  nation  in  the  world  has  shown  this 
spirit  in  such  practical  and  costly  forms  —  no  other  has  made 
such  sacrifices  to  emancipate  the  slave,  to  give  education  to 
the  poorest  and  the  humblest,  to  carry  the  elements  of  civil- 
ization tliroucfh  home  and  foreifjn  missions  to  the  unenliofht- 
ened  of  every  land.  This  spirit,  together  with  the  other 
forces  and  conditions  tliat  I  have  named,  will,  in  the  coming 
years,  find  a  practical  solution  of  the  difficult  problem  of  the 
right  relation  of  equality  and  liberty,  and  will  thereby  estab- 
lish a  relatively  perfect  equity. 

There  is,  however,  a  proviso,  a  condition.  All  this  will 
happen,  provided  the  American  population,  with  its  abound- 
ing vitality,  its  faitli  in  its  own  powers,  and  its  lieritage  of 
liberal  traditions  dispersed  throughout  a  wide  domain,  is  com- 
posed of  individual  men  of  the  right  moral  type.  An}-  failure 
of  character,  any  breaking  away  from  the  highest  ideals  of 
manliood,  could  easily  result  in  the  destruction  of  all  our  hopes. 

And  here  we  are  brought  to  a  consideration  of  tlie  relation 
of  our  educational  institutions  to  the  future  of  the  American 
nation,  and  to  the  survival  of  civil  liberty. 


THE   SURVIVAL   OF   CIVIL   LIBERTY  307 

The  duty  of  schools  and  colleges  cannot  be  told  in  a  word. 
They  must  impart  knowledge,  they  must  quicken  the  love  of 
truth,  they  must  foster  scientific  research,  they  must  discipline 
character.  But  none  of  these  is  the  supreme  obligation.  The 
highest  duty  of  any  institution  of  learning  is  to  present  to  all 
its  students  a  noble  ideal  of  manhood  and  Avomanhood,  and 
through  all  the  ways  of  discipline  to  strive  unceasingly  to 
mould  them  to  its  perfect  im-age.  Never  should  any  student 
find  it  possible  to  pass  from  the  quiet  nurture  of  his  college 
life  into  the  storm  and  stress  of  the  outer  world,  without  tak- 
ing with  him  a  distinct  notion  of  what  sort  of  man,  merely  as 
a  man,  apart  from  all  his  attainments,  the  college  graduate 
should  be ;  a  notion  that  he  can  never  efface,  even  though, 
tlirough  any  evil  disposition,  he  sliould  wish  to  do  so ;  a 
notion  that  forever  will  force  itself  upon  his  attention,  com- 
pelling him  tlirough  all  the  years  of  his  life  to  measure  wdiat 
he  is  by  that  image  of  what  he  ought  to  be. 

Not,  indeed,  in  all  the  endless  marvel  of  detail  can  the 
ideal  of  character  be  drawn.  By  each  human  being  for  him- 
self must  the  detail  be  filled  in.  But  in  general  outlines  we 
can  sketch  the  type  of  perfect  manhood  that  we  ought  to 
require  of  ourselves  and  of  our  fellow-men. 

The  perfect  citizen  demanded  by  our  own  age  and  by  our 
own  nation  can  be  characterized  in  a  single  phrase.  The 
American  who  is  worthy  to  be  so  called,  the  patriot  on  whom 
his  country  may  depend  in  any  hour  of  peril,  the  voter  who 
will  neither  take  the  scoundrel's  bribe  nor  follow  the  lead  of 
any  fool,  —  he  is  exactly  and  fully  described  when  we  say 
that  he  is  a  rationally  conscientious  man. 

For  such  a  man  is,  first  of  all,  everything  for  which  the 
word  "man"  stands  in  its  truest  emphasis.  He  is  virile,  a 
personal  force,  an  organism  overflowmg  with  splendid  power, 
alert,  fearless,  able  to  carry  to  perfect  fulfilment  any  under- 
taking to  which  he  may  put  his  hand.  INIoreover,  he  is  inde- 
pendent, preserving  in  his  disposition  and  habits  the  best 
traditions  of  a  pioneer  manhood,  of  those  Americans  of  an 
earlier  time  who  asked  little  and  did  much,  who  made  homes 
and  careers  for  themselves.     He  demands  not  too  much  of 


308  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

society  or  of  his  government.  He  does  not  expect  to  be 
provided  for.  He  does  not  ask  what  ready-made  places  in 
the  government  service  or  elsewhere  he  may  slip  into,  to 
enjoy  through  life  with  little  bother  or  anxiety.  Rather 
does  he  explore,  invent,  and  create  opportunities  for  himself 
and  for  others.  It  is  a  melancholy  thing  when  numbers  of  edu- 
cated men  go  looking  for  "  jobs,"  or  stand  waiting  for  oppor- 
tunities to  drift  their  way.  The  educated  man  has  already 
had  opportunitj'-,  and  the  world  rightly  expects  him  to  show 
powers  of  initiative  and  leadership.  He  has  no  right  to  be  a 
mere  imitator  of  others ;  and  when  he  is  content  to  be  such, 
there  is  something  radically  wrong  either  with  him  or  with 
the  college  that  has  trained  him. 

In  the  second  place,  the  true  American  is  a  conscientious 
man.  He  feels  as  a  vital  truth  —  and  does  not  merely  say  as 
cant  —  that  no  one  liveth  to  himself.  When  he  has  provided 
for  his  own,  he  does  not  think  that  he  has  accomplished  the 
whole  duty  of  man.  He  remembers  that,  although  he  has 
demanded  little  of  society,  he  has  in  reality  received  much. 
Education,  legal  protection,  the  unnumbered  benefits  flowing 
from  the  inventions,  the  sacrifices,  and  the  patriotism  of  past 
generations,  he  has  shared.  These  benefactions  he  wishes  to 
repay,  and  he  realizes  that  most  of  them  he  must  pay  for 
through  the  activities  of  good  citizenship.  And  especially 
does  he  realize  that  no  man  can  pay  these  debts  by  merely 
living  justly  in  private  life  and  kindly  within  the  circle  of 
his  immediate  family  and  personal  friends.  There  is  no  more 
wretched  sophistry  than  that  which  excuses  unprincipled  con- 
duct in  politics,  on  the  ground  that  the  wrong-doer  has  always 
been  a  good  husband  and  father,  and  an  honourable  man  in 
his  private  affairs.  No  nation  can  endure  which  draws  fine 
distinctions  between  public  and  private  morality.  There  is 
only  one  kind  of  honour,  there  is  only  one  recognized  brand 
of  common  honesty.  A  man  who,  to  serve  his  party,  becomes 
a  liar  and  a  thief,  is  a  liar  and  a  thief,  through  and  through, 
in  every  fibre  of  his  being,  though  he  never  told  a  falsehood 
to  his  wife  or  robbed  an  orphan  niece  of  her  inheritance. 

And,  finally,  the  true  American  must  be  a  rational  man. 


THE   SURVIVAL   OF   CIVIL  LIBERTY  309 

His  conscientiousness  must  not  be  of  that  narrow,  dogmatic 
type,  which  degenerates  into  mere  formality  or,  what  is 
worse,  into  intolerant  fanaticism.  We  must  not  suppose 
that  because  the  future  of  America  is  full  of  promise  it  is 
devoid  of  dangers.  Among  the  dangers  that  we  have  to 
face,  none  is  more  grave  than  that  fanatical  passion  which 
too  often  manifests  itself  in  lawless  dealings  with  criminal 
offenders  —  in  the  name  of  justice  destroying  the  very  foun- 
dation of  legal  retribution  —  which  now  and  then  takes  the 
form  of  a  wild  destruction  of  property  in  a  misguided  attempt 
to  redress  the  wrongs  of  the  working  man,  or  which,  from 
time  to  time,  breaks  forth  in  political  crazes  that  sweep  thou- 
sands of  voters  into  the  support  of  sheer  folly  and  dishonour. 
To  meet  these  dangers  we  must  have  men  not  only  honest 
and  manly,  but  also  cool,  deliberate,  large-minded,  able  to 
deal  reasonably  with  problems  that  are  not  easy  of  solution. 

"  Xot  till  the  ways  of  prudence  all  are  tried, 
And  tried  in  vain,  the  turn  of  rashness  comes." 

But  let  us  not  be  deceived  by  words.  There  is  rationalism 
and  rationalism.  The  rationalism  which  our  country  demands 
is  the  positive,  not  the  merely  negative  and  fault-finding  kind. 
We  have  quite  enough  of  men  whose  genius  consists  in  an 
acute  perception  of  all  that  is  wrong  or  imperfect.  We  have 
quite  enough  of  those  critics  of  our  political  system  who  can 
find  nothing  good  since  the  fathers  fell  asleep.  The  men  of 
the  new  day  must  be  of  tougher  fibre  than  they,  of  broader 
views,  of  more  inventive  mind.  The  efficient  citizen  of  the 
twentieth  century  must  be  rational  in  a  positive  and  con- 
structive sense.  A  lover  of  justice,  a  hater  of  wrong,  he 
must  be  also  a  disciple  of  wisdom. 

"  For  to  live  disobedient  to  these  two.  Justice  and  Wisdom,  is  no  life 
at  all." 

In  presenting  these  views  of  the  future  of  our  country  and 
of  the  type  of  man  which  it  will  demand,  to  you  who  are 
about  to  go  forth  from  college  life  into  the  realities  of  that 
future,  I  feel  assured  of  comprehension  and  approval ;  be- 
cause, in  an  eminent  degree,  you  have  enjoyed  the  teaching 


310  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMriRE 

and  received  the  inspiration  which  foster  the  manly  and 
womanly  character  that  I  have  endeavoured  to  describe. 
Preeminently  among  our  colleges  has  Oberlin  stood  for  the 
positive,  the  helpful,  the  hopeful  spirit.  Preeminently  has 
she  represented  ideals  of  democracy  and  equality.  No  dis- 
tinctions of  race  or  of  nationality  have  been  recognized  by 
her.  And  not  only  this,  but  an  inspiration  of  the  rarest  kind 
you  have  had  in  the  personal  history  of  one  from  whom  this 
institution  took  its  name.  Few,  indeed,  have  been  the  lives 
that  have  so  perfectly  exemplified  the  ideal  of  rationally  con- 
scientious manhood  as  did  that  of  Jean  Frederic  Oberlin,  the 
tireless  pastor  of  the  Ban  de  la  Roche.  That  district  of  the 
Vosges,  when  Oberlin  began  his  labours  there,  was  merely  nine 
thousand  acres  of  rocky  soil,  with  only  mule  paths  for  roads. 
It  was  inhabited  by  a  people  desperately  poor,  and  so  igno- 
rant that  few  of  them  could  read,  while  none  spoke  any  other 
language  than  a  barbarous  patois.  Before  Oberlin  died,  sixty 
years  later,  the  Ban  de  la  Roche,  largely  through  his  influ- 
ence, had  been  transformed  into  a  productive  region,  densely 
populated,  exporting  agricultural  products,  traversed  by  excel- 
lent roads,  and  built  up  with  substantial  dwellings.  Its  peojjle 
had  learned  to  maintain  admirable  schools  and  churches,  and 
to  speak  the  French  language  with  a  purity  not  excelled  any- 
where in  France.  Such  are  the  possibilities  of  one  earnest 
life.  What  may  not  you  accomplish  toward  the  perfection  of 
our  American  civilization,  if,  in  the  active  years  upon  which 
you  now  enter,  you  are  faithful  to  examples  such  as  this. 

Do  not,  however,  be  satisfied  with  any  mere  following  of 
example,  with  any  mere  conformity  to  standards  that  have 
been  held  before  3'ou,  in  your  college  days.  From  you,  as 
from  those  who  have  lived  before  3"0U,  the  world  will  rightly 
demand  new  thoughts  and  new  achievements.  Look  back 
upon  your  Alma  Mater  with  reverence,  but  also  with  a  filial 
care  that  she  do  not  too  early  descend  "  the  quiet,  mossy 
track  of  age."  As  alumni,  let  it  be  your  study  to  discover 
wherein  her  discipline  can  be  made  more  liberal,  her  teachhig 
sounder  and  broader,  her  influence  wider,  saner,  and  more 
enduring.  , 


THE  SURVIVAL  OF  CIVIL  LIBERTY  311 

And  carry  with  you  into  the  larger  life  of  American  citi- 
zenship the  same  spirit.  Be  not  satisfied  with  those  achieve- 
ments of  the  nation  that  have  passed  into  history.  Do  not 
forget  the  past,  but  live  and  work  for  the  future.  If  you  and 
those  others  who,  like  you,  have  enjoyed  the  privileges  of  a  lib- 
eral training,  as  educated  men  and  women,  as  citizens  of  our 
republic,  shall  do  your  whole  duty  rationally,  conscientiously, 
fearlessly,  there  can  be  no  failure  of  our  experiment  in  self- 
government,  no  diminution  of  the  blessings  of  civil  liberty. 


XIX 

THE   IDEALS   OF   NATIONS 


XIX 

THE  IDEALS  OF  NATIONS 

"I  UNDERTOOK  civil  and  foreign  wars  by  land  and  sea 
throughout  the  whole  world,  and  as  victor  I  showed  mercy  to 
all  surviving  citizens."  These  two  lines  from  the  "  Monu- 
mentum  Ancyranum,"  the  autobiographical  epitaph  of  the 
divine  Augustus,  are  an  epitome  of  the  moral  history  of  the 
civilized  world.  Every  nation  that  has  played  an  important 
part  in  the  elevation  of  mankind  from  barbarism  to  enlighten- 
ment, from  despotism  to  civil  liberty,  from  ruthless  cruelty  to 
compassion  and  fraternity,  has  begun  its  career  with  a  magnifi- 
cent display  of  power,  has  continued  it  in  the  lust  of  wealth, 
has  learned  the  lessons  of  restraint  and  sacrifice,  and  at  length 
has  come  to  some  appreciation  of  the  infinite  capacities,  the 
immeasurable  potential  value  of  the  individual  soul.  It  has 
begun  with  conquest;  but  it  has  crowned  its  career  with 
mercy  and  beneficence. 

The  iiidden  forces  of  national  life  are  instinctive  and  un- 
consoious.  The  masses  of  men  move  onward  to  the  fulfilment 
of  their  destinies  as  individuals  do,  borne  forward  by  currents 
of  feeling,  and  automatically  guided  by  motor  impulses  that 
had  their  origin  thousands  of  generations  back  in  the  dim 
ages  of  animal  evolution.  But  nations,  like  individuals,  in  a 
measure  have  shaped  their  destinies,  in  a  measure  have  guided 
their  progress,  by  the  light  of  ideals  that  reason  has  created, 
through  critical  reflection  upon  the  revelations  of  experience, 
and  by  a  comparative  study  of  the  relative  values  of  human 
desires,  as  tested  by  experiment. 

As  the  individualities  of  men  and  women  are  created  by 
their  differing  tastes  and  varied  enthusiasms  far  more  than  by 
their  physical  peculiarities,  so  the  individualities  of  nations  — 
those  indefinable  qualities  that  impart  a  personal  interest  to 

315 


816  DEMOCRACY   AND  EMPIRE 

the  struggle  and  fate  of  empires  —  are  a  product  of  their 
ideals  rather  than  of  tlieir  institutions.  An  instinctive  per- 
ception of  this  truth  has  sustained  the  more  poetic  lovers  of 
history  in  rebellion  against  the  too  great  pretensions  of  insti- 
tutional study.  This  truth  one  more  and  more  deeply  feels 
as  he  reads  through  Mr.  Henry  Osborne  Taylor's  noble  vol- 
umes on  "Ancient  Ideals."  They  tell  anew  the  story  of  an- 
cient history,  but  not  as  a  story  of  wars,  of  dynasties  or  of 
commerce.  It  is  a  story  of  the  inner  life,  of  the  spiritual 
growth  of  those  far-away  folk.  Although  he  does  not  ignore 
the  interaction  of  race  with  environment,  Mr.  Taylor  makes 
little  pretence  of  ethnological  learning,  and  little  attempt  at 
institutional  analysis,  as  he  tells  us  of  Egypt  and  Babylon,  of 
Persia  and  Cathay,  of  Judea,  Greece,  and  Rome.  His  inter- 
pretation is  intuitive,  poetical,  religious ;  and  when  we  have 
read  it  through,  we  are  aware  that  dormant  intuitions  and  the 
sort  of  sympathy  that  clarifies  thought,  have  been  quickened 
within  ourselves.  We  feel  that  we  know  those  mighty 
peoples  of  the  olden  times  as  we  did  not  know  them  before. 

Besides  the  interest  which  we  thus  feel  in  the  character- 
izing quality  of  national  ideals  and  in  what  we  may  call  their 
inherent  spiritual  worthiness,  Avhen,  in  all  their  varied  moral 
beauty,  they  are  drawn  by  a  master  hand,  there  is  anotlier  as- 
pect —  perhaps  without  detraction  we  may  say  a  more  scien- 
tific aspect  —  of  popular  ideals  which  has  its  own  legitimate 
interest  for  the  liistorian,  and  especially  for  the  evolutionist. 
From  an  evolutionary  point  of  view  some  things  may  be  said 
about  the  genesis  of  ideals  and  about  the  order  of  their  suc- 
cession, combination,  and  recapitulation  in  history,  wliich 
would  not  naturally  fmd  place  in  a  less  realistic,  though 
equally  serious,  interpretation.  This  still  open  opportunity 
is  my  excuse  for  toucliing  a  subject  that  Mr.  Taylor  has  so 
worthily  made  his  own. 

The  ideals  of  nations,  like  those  of  individuals,  are  derived 
from  concrete  qualities  of  character.  Next  to  his  own  self- 
preservation,  every  man  is  chiefly  concerned  about  the  nature 
of  his  companions  in  the  struggle  for  existence ;  nay,  he  is 


THE  IDEALS  OF  NATIONS  317 

concerned  about  his  associates  precisely  because  self-preserva- 
tion is  his  supreme  interest,  since  his  fate  is  quite  as  likely  to 
be  determined  by  his  fellow-beings  as  by  his  physical  sur- 
roundings. To  some  extent  he  necessarily  associates  with 
men  whom  he  distrusts  and  dislikes.  As  far  as  possible,  how- 
ever, he  exercises  choice  in  the  selection  of  comrades  and  co- 
workers. He  allies  himself  to  those  with  whom  he  sympa- 
thizes, and  gathers  round  him  those  whose  instincts  and 
purposes  are  substantially  like  his  own,  in  whom  he  can 
repose  confidence,  and  for  whom  he  can  feel  admiration. 
This  is  relatively  an  easy  task  —  much  easier  than  would  be 
the  attempt  to  find  associates  widely  unlike  himself;  because 
he  and  most  other  members  of  the  population  to  which  he  be- 
longs are  descended  from  a  common  stock,  have  inherited  like 
instincts,  have  been  subjected  to  like  conditions,  and  thereby 
have  been  moulded  to  a  common  type.  For  the  same  reason, 
at  a  particular  time,  some  one  type  of  character  is  generally 
preferred.  Consequently  the  prevailing  ideal,  then  and  there 
cherished,  is  that  of  a  complete  realization  of  the  preferred 
character.  The  subordinate  ideals  are  mental  images  of  the 
economic,  moral,  and  social  conditions  that  are  conceived  to 
be  necessar}^  as  means  to  the  perfection  of  the  ideal  character. 
To  a  majority  of  men,  the  struggle  for  existence  is  still 
fraught  with  difficulty  and  risk,  and  often  with  peril.  Most 
men,  therefore,  still  have  need  of  force  and  courage,  and  most 
men  profoundly  admire  these  qualities.  It  is  doubtful  if  the 
transition  from  chronic  warfare  to  a  busy  industrial  civilization 
materially  diminishes  the  demand  for  primitive  virtues.  Not 
only  the  soldier  and  the  marine,  but  also  the  common  sailor, 
the  explorer  and  the  engineer,  the  ranchman  and  the  miner, 
and  even  the  farmer  and  the  mechanic,  are  compelled  by  the 
daily  exigencies  of  their  lives  to  scorn  and  cast  out  the  over- 
timid  co-worker.  Consequently  it  is  not  among  primitive 
men  only  that  physical  prowess  is  valued  above  all  other  gifts. 
In  modern  populations,  also,  the  average  man,  who  cares  little 
for  the  graces  of  body  or  mind,  is  likely  to  care  everything 
for  the  mere  power  to  achieve.  The  strong  and  valorous 
comrade  he  admires  above  all  other  characters.     This  univer- 


318  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

sal  adoration  of  power  is  modified  or  coloured,  of  course,  bj 
other  emotions  and  by  the  intellectual  processes.  It  may 
even  take  the  form  of  a  supreme  admiration  for  intellectual 
or  moral  power,  as  distinguished  from  physical  stiength,  but 
in  one  or  another  form  it  is  the  ruling  sentiment,  the  funda- 
mental preference  of  mankind.  The  prize  fighter,  the  athlete, 
the  military  hero,  the  imperturbable  leader  who  can  withstand 
the  assaults  of  malignity,  these  are  the  popular  idols. 

To  mankind  generally  the  chief  relaxation  in  the  struggle 
for  existence  is  found  in  social  pleasures  of  the  convivial  type. 
Enough  not  only  to  eat,  but  also  to  drink,  the  jovial  pleasures 
of  feast  and  bout,  these  rude  rewards  of  dangerous  toil  are 
still  dear  to  the  average  man.  And  so,  most  naturally,  when 
peril  is  past  and  the  day's  work  is  done,  the  average  man  de- 
sires that  his  companions,  like  himself,  shall  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  good-fellowship.  The  convivial  man  becomes  a  type 
of  character  widely  appreciated.  Like  the  valorous,  this  type 
is  modified  and  refined  in  various  wa3^s,  but  chiefly  by  pros- 
perity and  the  differentiating  effects  of  increasing  wealth. 
In  prosperous  communities  the  convivial  man  becomes  the 
pleasure-loving  man  in  manifold  avatars.  At  his  best  he  is 
the  gracious  man ;  and,  as  such,  he  often  is  a  popular  idol  only 
less  adored  than  the  military  hero.  As  such,  he  must  be  a 
prosperous  man,  and  gifted.  But  above  all  things  he  must, 
with  liis  accomplishments,  combine  generosity,  liberality  of 
S2)irit,  and  the  love  of  enjoyment.  By  his  talents  or  his  wealth 
he  must  contribute  in  numberless  ways  to  the  pleasure  of  his 
fellow-men.  Withal,  he  must  be  a  complaisant  man,  a  re- 
specter of  tlie  social  virtues,  but  discreetly  and  often  more 
than  a  little  blind  to  the  reijjnincf  faults  and  follies  of  a  luxu- 
rious  age. 

Thus  two  of  the  generic  ideals  of  character  spring  directly 
from  a  successful  struoforle  for  existence.  The  valorous  man 
and  the  convivial  man  are  nature's  primordial  products  in  the 
moral  realm.  But  in  this  realm,  as  in  tliat  of  physical  life, 
nature  is  wasteful  to  a  degree  that  appals  imagination.  That 
we  may  see  one  life  of  truly  heroic  mould,  she  spawns  a  mil- 
lion stalwart  brutes  ;  and  that  we  may  have  the  truly  gracious 


THE  IDEALS   OF  NATIONS  819 

strain,  she  permits  unnumbered  roisterers  to  waste  not  only 
their  substance,  but  even  their  inmost  souls. 

It  is  by  reaction  against  these  wastes  that  we  get  the  two 
remaining  types  and  ideals  of  character.  In  some  of  those 
who  have  too  often  seen  a  jovial  intoxication  end  in  sottish- 
ness  ;  who  have  too  often  seen  luxury  pass  over  into  debauch- 
ery and  wantonness  ;  who  have  even  seen  graciousness  become 
a  wretched  deceit  that  ends  in  dishonour,  a  healthy  opposition 
has  been  aroused,  and  they  have  begun  to  demand  of  them- 
selves and  of  their  associates  the  exercise  of  a  decent  self- 
restraint.  Under  circumstances  of  prolonged  and  general 
hardship,  when  the  mere  maintenance  of  life  becomes  difficult, 
this  demand  is  strengthened  by  experiences  of  intolerable  bur- 
dens laid  upon  the  prudent  by  all  extravagant  indulgences 
on  the  part  of  the  reckless.  Under  such  circumstances, 
the  demand  is  not  only  for  self-restraint,  but  also  for  self- 
denial.  It  is  then  that  the  austere  man,  who  can  firmly  put 
aside  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  in  mere  duty  give  himself  to 
severe  employments,  is  idealized  by  thousands  of  those  hum- 
ble and  patient  ones  to  whom  the  struggle  for  existence  has 
brought  neither  any  great  success  nor  overwhelming  disaster, 
but  only  life  itself,  in  exchange  for  unremitting  toil. 

The  austere  man,  therefore,  is  the  character-ideal  of  a  sec- 
tion of  mankind  by  no  means  insignificant.  Variously  known 
in  history  as  the  Hebraic,  the  Roman,  the  Puritan  type,  he 
has  often  commanded  an  uncompromising  allegiance  and 
played  a  leading  r61e. 

But  from  the  ranks  of  austere  men,  inured  to  hardship, 
there  continually  spring  those  individuals,  numbered  in  mod- 
ern times  by  tens  of  thousands,  who  achieve  a  real  and  often 
a  great  success  in  the  universal  struggle.  To  such,  mere 
existence  is  no  longer  the  sole  reward  of  effort.  Oppor- 
tunities open  before  them  for  an  expansion  of  life.  For  them 
emotion  is  attuned  and  coloured,  and  the  ranges  of  thought 
are  widened.  They  do  not  cease  to  be  self-restrained,  but 
they  become  intellectually  fearless.  They  can  no  longer 
think  of  self-denial  as  inherently  good,  but  they  can  make 
sacrifices   for  worthy  ends.      Enlightened,  yet  still   sincere. 


320  DEMOCRACY   AND    EMPIRE 

they  look  with  tolerant  minds  upon  much  which  they  do  not 
commend.  In  such  men  is  born  the  highest  of  all  ideals  of 
character,  that  of  the  rationally  conscientious  man.  Always 
striving  to  break  through  narrowing  limitations,  but  casting 
aside  pretence  of  every  sort,  the  rationally  conscientious  man 
endeavours  in  his  conduct  to  express  and  to  perfect  his  own 
essential  nature.  Perceiving  in  himself  many  unrealized 
possibilities,  some  of  larger  life  and  some  of  moral  decay, 
he  looks  frankly  at  them  all,  and,  resisting  those  that  make 
for  degeneration,  without  apology  yields  to  those  of  growth. 
His  habit,  therefore,  is  not  that  of  indulgence  for  its  own 
sake  or  of  self-denial  for  its  own  sake  :  it  is  a  rational  choos- 
ing of  the  larger  life.  Thus  the  perfect  ideal  of  rationally 
conscientious  manhood  contains  the  notion  of  self-realization, 
and,  on  the  objective  side,  that  of  meliorism  or  progress. 
The  rationally  conscientious  man  believes  in  the  mental  and 
moral  advancement  of  his  race.  Exploring  the  wider  possi- 
bilities of  conscious  existence,  he  tries  to  establish  the  intel- 
lectual habit,  to  broaden  knowledge,  to  perfect  the  forms  of 
beauty  in  manners  and  in  art,  to  enlighten  the  ignorant,  to 
open  new  opportunities  to  those  who  have  enjo3'ed  but  little, 
to  improve  the  forms  of  society  and  of  the  state,  and  to  per- 
form witli  wisdom  the  duties  of  a  citizen. 

These,  then,  are  the  four  original  ideals  of  character,  cre- 
ated directly,  or  through  reaction,  by  the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence. In  every  population  they  are  simultaneously  held,  and 
nearly  every  individual  admires  or  believes  in  more  than  one 
of  them ;  not,  liowever,  with  equal  intensity.  In  a  majority 
of  minds  the  ideal  of  valour  is  supreme,  but  the  convivial 
man  is  next  best  beloved.  To  a  large  minority  of  minds  the 
ideal  of  the  austere  man  appeals  with  constraining  power. 
The  rationally  conscientious  man  remains  the  ideal  of  the 
relatively  few. 

These  four  ideals  of  character  are  not  only  simultaneously 
held  by  different  classes  in  every  population,  but  also  they 
are  successively  held  by  those  individuals  and  classes  that 
pass  through  a  complete  cycle  of  moral  evolution.  The  ideal 
of  power  is  first  to  take  possession  of  the  imagination ;  and 


THE   IDEALS  OE  NATIONS  321 

it  is  because  large  numbers  of  men  in  their  ethical  develop- 
ment never  get  further,  that  this  ideal  is  more  prevalent 
than  any  other.  The  ideal  of  good  fellowship,  conviviality, 
and  graciousness,  is  held  by  those  who  have  gone  on  to  a 
second  stage  of  moral  evolution.  The  ideal  of  austere  re- 
straint is  attained  by  those  who  have  experienced  the  evils 
of  excess,  or  who  have  seen  that  indulgence  in  mere  luxury 
cannot  permanently  satisfy,  and  have  healthily  reacted  upon 
intemperate  desires.  The  fourth  ideal  is  held  only  by  those 
who,  as  individuals  or  as  family  stocks,  have  passed  through 
all  earlier  stages  of  experience,  and  have  discovered  that 
even  denial  can  be  carried  to  excess,  until  it  narrows  and 
hardens,  and  have  learned  that  complete  satisfaction  is  found 
only  in  a  life  to  which  no  permanent  bounds  can  be  assigned. 

Nations,  like  individuals,  normally  move  through  this  cycle 
of  moral  experience.  To  the  ideals  of  individual  character 
correspond  ideals  of  national  achievement  and  renown. 
These  are  derived  partly  from  conditions  that  create  the 
individual  ideal,  and  partly  from  the  individual  ideal  itself. 
The  community  that  supremely  values  the  valorous  man 
cares  chiefly  for  national  power.  The  community  that  pre- 
fers the  gifted,  the  successful,  the  convivial  and  gracious 
man  chiefly  values  material  splendour  in  its  civic  life.  The 
community  that  favours  chiefly  the  austere  man  insists  upon 
ceremonial  purity,  or  upon  ceremonial  righteousness,  or  de- 
votes itself  to  the  establishment  of  civil  justice.  While, 
finally,  tiie  community  tliat  cares  for  the  conscientiously 
rational  life  strives  to  establish  liberty,  for  only  under  liberty 
can  there  be  progress  and  self-realization.  Nations,  then, 
begin  their  careers  with  a  supreme  interest  in  mere  power. 
They  pass  through  the  stages  of  materialism  and  of  cere- 
monial righteousness ;  and,  if  they  survive,  they  devote  them- 
selves at  leno'th  to  the  hiorher  achievements  of  science, 
philosophy,  and  popular  education,  and  to  the  perfection  of 
that  civic  life  in  which  every  individual  can  find  opportunity 
for  the  realization  of  whatever  is  best  in  his  own  nature. 

Not  all  nations,  indeed,  have  moved  through    these    sue- 


822  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

cessive  stages  of  the  moral  cycle  at  the  same  rate ;  not  all 
have  shown  equal  devotion  at  successive  periods  of  their 
history  to  each  of  the  four  ideals;  not  all  have  completed  the 
cycle.  Nevertheless,  in  their  allegiance  to  ideals,  nations 
have  often  shown  significant  groupings,  and  often  have 
complemented  or  supplemented  one  another's  moral  evolu- 
tion. Moreover,  a  few  nations,  having  completed  the  moral 
cycle,  having  attained  to  full  and  varied  life,  have  combined 
the  ideals  of  character  and  achievement  in  ethical  products 
of  extraordinary  comijlexity.  It  is  when  surveyed  in  the 
light  of  these  facts  that  the  story  of  world  history  acquires 
its  deepest  significance  and  its  true  dramatic  unit}'. 

As  in  a  sonata,  different  but  related  musical  themes  are 
successively  introduced  in  a  first  movement,  to  be  combined 
and  developed  in  a  second  movement,  so  in  universal  history 
the  ideals  of  nations  were  successively  presented  to  mankind 
by  the  peoples  whose  aspirations  and  achievements  made  up 
the  story  of  ancient  histor}^;  and  they  liave  been  combined 
and  recapitulated,  in  harmonies  of  marvellous  com]3lexity,  in 
the  history  that  began  with  Hellenic  civilization  on  the  shores 
of  the  iEgean  Sea.  The  themes  of  history  were  introduced 
by  the  peoples  of  the  East.  They  have  been  developed, 
combined,  and  recapitulated  by  the  nations  of  tlie  West. 

The  ancient  empires  of  Egypt  and  Babylonia  w^ere,  above 
all  else,  embodiments  of  power.  They  were  the  first  magnif- 
icent achievements  in  civic  unity  and  military  strength. 
They  first  among  men  achieved  the  task  of  converting  aggre- 
gations of  barbarian  tribes,  organized  on  the  basis  of  kinship, 
into  mighty  civil  states  organized  on  the  basis  of  territorial 
association.  This  was  in  itself  the  most  dillicult  of  tasks ; 
and  its  success  depended  upon  the  possibility  of  establishing 
and  maintaining  among  elements  of  population  originally 
diverse  a  relatively  perfect  homogeneity  of  interests,  beliefs, 
and  habits.  This  was  accomplished  by  those  primitive 
policies  of  civilization  which  sought  to  compel  all  men  to 
submit  to  the  same  military  discipline,  to  worship  the  same 
gods,  to  wear  prescribed  costumes,  and  to  order  their  daily 


THE   IDEALS  OF  NATIONS  323 

lives  by  prescribed  rules.  By  these  means  were  created 
centralized  governments  of  unprecedented  power ;  and  by 
their  activity  in  conquest  great  wealth  was  amassed  and 
material  magnificence  was  made  possible.  Power,  then, 
and  prosperity  were  the  cherished  ideals  of  that  an- 
cient world.  Beyond  these  stages  of  moral  development, 
individuals  no  doubt  often  succeeded  in  passing;  but  the 
nations  of  Babylonia  and  Egypt  in  their  entirety  got  no 
further. 

Under  what  circumstances,  then,  was  any  great  population 
for  the  first  time  in  human  history  converted  to  the  higher 
ideal  of  restraint,  temperance,  and  patient  performance  of  daily 
duty,  with  much  cheerful  acceptance  of  the  necessity  of  daily 
self-denial? 

Perhaps  the  answer  may  be  found  in  the  story  of  the  first 
great  migration  of  a  civilized  people  into  a  distant,  unknown 
land,  where,  in  contact  with  an  aboriginal  barbarian  liumanity, 
it  became  necessary  to  lay  the  foundations  of  a  new  civil 
life.  Already  beginning  to  feel  the  pressure  of  population 
upon  the  means  of  subsistence,  the  Alvkadian  builders  of 
Babylon  were  presently  overwhelmed  by  Semitic  invaders, 
and  in  large  numbers  were  driven  forth  from  the  valley  of 
the  Euphrates.  Wandering  eastward  for  no  one  knows  how 
many  years  or  generations  (for  the  story  was  long  since  lost 
in  the  morning  mists  of  history),  these  bearers  of  the  world's 
first  knowledge  of  statecraft  and  the  arts  came  at  last  into 
that  eastern  quarter  of  Asia  which  borders  on  the  Yellow 
Sea.  There,  mingling  with  the  native  population,  they 
created  a  new  race,  a  new  nation,  and  a  mode  of  life  which 
has  scarcely  changed  for  four  thousand  years. 

On  that  long  march  it  must  have  happened  that  many  men 
repined  at  their  fate  and  could  not  cheerfully  relinquish  the 
comforts  and  pleasures  of  life  in  the  wonderful  city  from 
which  they  had  been  driven  forth.  Such  men  were  only 
a  burden  to  tliemselves  and  to  their  comrades  ;  and  doubtless, 
with  few  exceptions,  they  perished  miserably  by  the  way. 
Only  those  men  could  push  on  to  endure  the  continuing 
hardships,  to  achieve  the  new  tasks  and  the  new  success,  who 


324  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

could  patiently  undergo  disappointment  and  loss,  who  could 
resolutely  renounce  the  past,  and,  with  fidelity  to  one  an- 
other, take  up  the  new  duties  of  everyday  life,  where  little 
was  to  be  enjoyed  as  the  reward  of  much  toil  endured.  To 
such  men  the  only  possible  ideal  of  character  was  that  in 
which  the  qualities  of  patience,  persistence,  fidelity,  devotion 
to  duty,  and  a  spirit  of  cheerful  acquiescence  in  whatever  lot 
awaited  them,  were  the  dominant  traits.  And  this  ideal  they 
carried  with  them  into  the  far-away  land ;  and  there,  for 
unnumbered  generations,  it  has  persisted,  the  dominant  note 
of  life  in  a  vast  celestial  empire,  distinguished  above  all 
other  peoples  in  the  world  for  filial  piety,  for  tireless  indus- 
try, for  patient  endurance,  for  quiet  content,  in  whatever  fate 
may  bestow. 

Directly  across  the  path  of  that  first  migration  of  civilized 
man,  there  moved,  we  know  not  when,  or  along  what  route, 
another  stream  of  wandering  men  —  they  of  the  Aryan 
tongue.  Regarding  their  origin  we  need  make  no  assum2> 
tion.  The  question  as  to  whether  they  first  dwelt  in 
Scandinavia,  in  Germany,  in  the  upland  vales  of  the  Cauca- 
sus, or  on  the  plains  of  Pamir,  has  ceased  to  be  important, 
because  we  now  know  that  before  the  dawn  of  history  the 
Aryan  stocks  were  distributed  throughout  a  zone  that  ex- 
tended from  the  fjords  of  Norway  in  Northwestern  Europe, 
across  Southern  Russia  and  up  the  valley  of  the  Oxus,  to  the 
slopes  of  the  Hindu  Kush.  And  we  know  also  that  some 
of  them,  at  a  time  from  which  no  monumental  or  written 
records  remain,  moved  southward  until  they  came  into  the 
valleys  of  the  Ganges  and  tlie  Indus. 

To  these  people,  too,  had  come  the  lesson  of  endurance, 
of  temperance,  and  of  denial.  To  them,  however,  nature 
had  given  an  endowment  of  imagination,  a  sensitiveness  to 
beauty,  a  love  of  poetic  colouring  in  which  the  people  who 
had  moved  eastward  from  Bab3donia  were  wholly  lacking. 
So,  when  they  halted  in  the  highlands  of  Persia  and  Medea, 
and  endeavoured  there  to  work  out  the  foundations  of  a  civil 
life,  they  clotlied  their  ideal  of  restraint  and  duty  in  forms 
of  sublime  imagery  and  of  lighter  fancy,  which  gave  to  tlu^ 


THE   IDEALS   OF   NATIONS  325 

ideas  themselves  an  attractiveness  that  never  from  that  day- 
failed  to  impress  and  fascinate  the  minds  of  men.  Their 
ideal  became  that  of  the  righteous  man  and  the  life  fulfilling 
righteousness.  "  With  hands  stretched  out,  I  pray  to  fulfil 
all  good  works,  the  first  law  of  Mazda.  ...  As  many  as 
I  may  I  seek  to  teach  to  seek  the  good.  Come  with  good 
thought,  O  Righteousness.  Give  the  gifts  which  last  eter- 
nally." So  was  this  third  ideal  of  man  in  its  Iranian  form 
expressed  in  ceremonial  prayer.  Yet  further  developed  in 
Judea,  it  finally  attained  its  loftiest  expression  in  the  sublime 
ethical  poetry  of  the  Hebrew  prophets. 

In  the  poetic  colouring  which  the  Iranian  gave  to  his  ideal 
of  the  self-controlled  life,  we  perceive  an  element  that  was 
later  to  find  its  development  in  the  fourth  ideal,  an  essential 
characteristic  of  which  is  a  sincere  appreciation,  at  once 
rational  and  emotional,  of  life  itself  and  of  its  possibilities 
when  stripped  of  artificiality.  This  appreciation  finds  ex- 
pression not  only  in  character,  but  also  objectively  in  those 
free  forms  of  art  that  break  away  from  ancient  conventionali- 
ties, in  the  higher  forms  of  religion,  and  in  types  of  citizen- 
ship that  create  and  maintain  liberty.  Among  the  people  of 
Persia  it  early  found  expression  in  an  art  that  took  many 
of  its  models  from  Babylonia  and  Egypt,  but  handled  them 
with  freedom  and  gave  to  them  a  grace  and  a  vitality  alto- 
gether new.  This  was  true  also  of  much  of  the  literary 
product  of  Iran. 

Not,  however,  until  the  migrating  Aryans  had  found  their 
way  into  India  did  their  faculty  for  sincere  appreciation  and 
untrammeled  expression  reach  its  full  attainment.  There 
the  mind  of  man  came  in  contact  with  phases  of  nature  more 
varied,  more  beautiful,  and  more  terrible  than  any  that  had 
hitherto  been  encountered.  There,  face  to  face  with  dangers 
more  manifold  and  dreadful,  the  soul  of  man  became  serious 
and  contemplative  in  a  new  degree.  Observing  nature  in 
her  most  magnificent  expression,  the  imagination  was  ex- 
panded ;  and,  witnessing  the  struggle  for  existence  in  an 
intensity  which  had  had  no  parallel  in  earlier  experience, 
the  heart  was  moved  to  a  compassion  for  suffering  and  failure 


326  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

that  had  not  before  been  either  so  deep  or  so  pitiful.  From 
these  experiences  there  sprang  a  luxuriant  art,  largely  devel- 
oped from  Persian  models,  a  noble  epic  literature,  a  philoso- 
phy as  profound  as  man  has  yet  attained,  and  a  religion  of 
compassion  which  perhaps  in  its  universal  sympathy  and 
mercifulness  has  not  been  surpassed.  Out  of  all  this  emerged 
the  ideal  of  the  rationally  perfect  man  —  the  man  who  has 
touched  life  at  every  point,  who  has  surrendered  all  illusions, 
who  has  become  clear-minded  and  sincere,  and  has  entered 
upon  the  way  of  self-realization.  This  man  is  contemplative, 
—  his  rationality  is  speculative  rather  than  scientific,  and 
herein  is  its  limitation,  —  but  he  is  also  merciful  and  his  pity 
has  no  bounds,  for  in  his  disillusionment  he  has  suffered,  and 
he  has  perceived  that  all  who  attain  to  self-knowledge  must 
suffer  in  like  manner.  He  has  perceived  the  necessity  of 
liberty ;  but  he  conceives  of  liberty  as  a  freeing  of  the  soul 
from  bondage  to  material  conditions.  The  perfect  man, 
therefore,  is  he  who  has  surmounted  all  moral  obstacles  and 
has  conquered  all  passions ;  who,  through  contemplation  and 
sincere  obedience,  has  brought  himself  into  complete  adjust- 
ment to  the  eternal  laws.  The  perfect  community  consists 
of  those  who  attain  such  sincerity  and  emancipation.  That 
this  ideal  in  its  Hindu  form  was  sombre  in  colouring,  that  it 
made  more  of  resignation  than  of  activity,  more  of  pity  than 
of  struggle,  more  of  religious  contemplation  than  of  artistic 
creation  or  of  citizenship,  was  simply  a  consequence  of  the 
contact  of  a  people  not  yet  perfected  in  political  organiza- 
tion, not  yet  master  of  the  higher  industrial  methods,  with  an 
environment  which  inevitably,  through  its  abundance,  pro- 
duced overpopulation,  and  impressed  the  imagination  with 
awe  rather  than  with  a  sense  of  scientific  interest. 

Yet  farther  to  the  East,  in  those  islands  which  skirt  the 
Yellow  Sea,  developed  a  people  whose  origins  are  more  ob- 
scure than  are  those  of  any  other  group  that  has  attained 
to  a  position  of  high  culture.  To  the  islands  of  Japan  were 
carried  the  practical  knowledge  of  China  and  tlie  religion 
and  philosophy  of  India,  together  with  many  artistic  ideas 
that  had  travelled  across  tlie  Asiatic  continent  from  Egypt 


THE   IDEALS   OF   NATIONS  327 

and  Chaldea.  There  they  underwent  a  development  finer 
and  more  varied  than  they  had  attained  in  either  India  or 
Persia.  Above  all  other  peoples  of  Asia,  the  Japanese  ac- 
quired the  delicacy  of  artistic  feeling  and  the  freedom  of 
artistic  expression  which  we  are  prone  to  ascribe  only  to  the 
most  gifted  of  Western  communities.  It  was  in  artistic  crea- 
tion chiefly,  but  also  in  religious  feeling  to  some  extent,  that 
the  Japanese  worked  out  their  own  national  form  of  that 
highest  ideal  of  human  life  which  combines  rationality  with 
sincerity,  and  enjoys  perfect  liberty  of  expression.  But  in 
Japan  the  concrete  realization  of  this  type  was  the  sensitive 
man,  who  could  directly  and  accurately  perceive  beauty  and 
truth ;  and  the  necessary  liberty  of  such  a  character  consisted 
not  so  much  in  moral  emancipation  or  in  civil  privilege  as  in 
freedom  from  all  prejudice  and  distorting  passion. 

Thus,  in  the  earliest  history  of  civilization,  and  in  the  evo- 
lution of  the  population  of  Asia  regarded  as  a  whole,  the 
entire  cycle  of  human  ideals  was  created  and  traversed.  It 
is  only  in  the  contemplation  of  Asia  as  a  whole,  however,  that 
we  discover  the  complete  expression  of  all  four  of  the  great 
and  fundamental  ideals.  Especially  is  it  true  that  only  in 
the  career  of  two  or  three  different  Asiatic  peoples  do  we 
find  anything  approaching  a  complete  expression  of  the  ideal 
of  conscientious  rationality  —  an  expression  which  takes  not 
only  ethical  but  also  artistic  forms.  In  one  particular,  how- 
ever, the  Asiatic  cycle  falls  short  of  completion.  Nowhere 
on  that  continent  or  in  its  neighbouring  islands  do  we  find 
the  fourth  ideal  taking  shape  in  conceptions  of  perfect  citi- 
zenship or  of  the  highest  type  of  statesmanship.  These  were 
reserved  for  the  people  of  the  West. 

If  now  we  turn  to  the  history  of  the  West,  we  shall  find 
its  most  remarkable  characteristic  to  be  that  successive  West- 
ern peoples  have  each  completed  the  cycle  of  national  ideals, 
and  have  then  developed  them  in  complex  combinations. 

First  among  these  were  the  Greeks,  men  of  the  same  blood 
and  speech  and  early  experiences  as  those  Aryans  who  crossed 
Iran,  and  made  their  way  down  the  valleys  of  India  to  the 


328  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

shores  of  the  Indian  Ocean.  Even  more  highly  gifted  with 
imagination  than  the  Eastern  Aryans,  more  richly  endowed 
with  the  critical  quality  of  reason,  though  not  so  profoundly 
contemplative,  and  more  versatile  in  artistic  expression,  the 
Greeks  already,  at  the  beginning  of  written  history,  had 
passed  through  the  periods  of  creative  conquest  and  rude 
splendour,  and  were  entering  upon  those  disciplinary  expe- 
riences which  disclose  the  loftier  ideals.  What  may  have 
been  before  the  Mycenaean  age  we  very  imperfectly  know, 
but  the  ruins  of  Mycense  and  of  Argos  themselves  yield 
abounding  proofs  that,  within  their  walls  at  least,  military 
power  had  early  created  a  superb  and  profuse  luxury.  With 
the  decline  of  their  supremacy,  the  Grecian  colonizing  of  the 
-^gean  Islands  and  of  the  Asian  shore,  if  not  then  first  begun, 
was  vigorously  continued.  Into  this  new  and  harder  life  of 
an  emigrant  population  entered  those  renunciations,  those 
sacrifices  of  familiar  and  cherished  pleasures,  and  those  hard- 
ships which  made  men  serious,  dutiful,  frugal,  and  self- 
restrained.  A  thousand  evidences  of  these  disciplines,  and 
of  the  emergence  —  by  reason  of  them  —  of  a  more  austere 
ideal,  we  find  scattered  throughout  the  Homeric  epics,  where 
also  are  reflected  the  earlier  ideals  of  power  and  splendour. 
Not  only  this,  but  also  the  rise  of  a  new  and  nobler  civiliza- 
tion we  see  clearly  revealed.  Enterprise  and  toil  are  rewarded 
with  bountiful  fruits  of  the  earth  and  the  favour  of  heaven. 
Brave  and  dutiful  men  become  also  wide-visioned,  contem- 
plative, and  critical.  The  heroes  of  the  "  Iliad "  and  the 
"  Odyssey  "  are  more  than  men  of  strength  and  physical  cour- 
age ;  they  are  men  of  wonderful  intellectual  resource  and  of 
strategic  insight,  and  yet  withal  of  tender  and  abounding 
pity.  In  the  court  of  Olympian  Jove  and  in  the  councils  of 
men  the  ancient  ideals  of  a  ceremonial  justice  are  undergoing 
a  profound  modification.  They  are  widening  into  concep- 
tions of  moral  liberty  and  of  a  socially  ordered  freedom. 

Thus  it  is  evident  that  before  Attic  history  began  the 
Greeks  as  a  race  had  already  conceived  the  noblest  ideals. 
The  rationally  conscientious  man,  more  critical  and  objective 
than  the  contemplative  man  of  India,  and  retaining  more  of 


THE   IDEALS  OF  NATIONS  329 

the  fire  of  primitive  courage,  —  this  already  was  the  ideal 
personality  ;  and  liberty,  breaking  through  many  restraints  of 
venerable  custom,  was  already  conceived  as  a  possible  ideal 
for  the  ordering  of  social  affairs.  The  cycle  of  moral  experi- 
ence had  been  traversed,  but  the  energy  of  the  race  was  not 
diminished :  it  was  still  at  the  tension  of  youth.  And  thus 
it  came  about  that  with  the  rise  of  Attica  began  an  absolutely 
new  development  in  human  history. 

In  Attica  the  ideals  of  manhood  and  of  national  renown 
were  for  the  first  time  combined,  recapitulated,  and  blended 
in  an  intricate  moral  pattern.  In  the  matchless  funeral  ora- 
tion by  Pericles,  as  Thucydides  reports  it,  we  read  that  the 
valour  of  the  Athenian  soldier  had  never  been  surpassed  in  the 
annals  of  war ;  that  no  citizen  soldiery  had  ever  surrendered 
for  their  state  so  many  opportunities  and  pleasures,  so  many 
perfect  joys  of  life ;  that  wives  and  mothers  and  aged  men 
had  never  more  uncomplainingly  borne  burdens  of  sorrow,  or 
taken  up  with  more  patient  submission  to  civic  duty  the  tasks 
intended  for  stronger  hands, — and,  while  we  read,  we  fur- 
ther discover  that,  added  to  all  these  ideal  excellencies  of 
character,  the  Athenian  intellect  was  rational  and  crystal- 
clear.  The  oration  is  thus  an  epitome  of  experiences  and  re- 
flections never  before  so  combined  ;  for  the  age  of  Pericles 
was  the  first  in  which  the  human  mind  so  nearly  attained 
complete  self-realization.  It  was  then,  and  from  that  time 
on,  that  every  ideal  found  perfect  expression  in  character,  in 
literature,  philosophy,  art,  and  political  experiment.  It  is  not 
necessary  here  to  dwell  on  the  perfection  of  the  art,  the 
unequalled  beauty  of  the  literature,  or  the  clear,  critical 
qualitj'  of  the  philosophy.  That  which  for  our  present  pur- 
poses is  of  chief  importance  is  to  observe  that  all  the  ideals 
themselves  are  clarified  and  exalted  by  comparison  and  com- 
bination. The  heroic  man,  as  now  conceived,  must  display, 
not  only  bravery,  but  also  fortitude,  and  must  endure,  not  only 
physical  suffering  like  the  soldiers  of  Xenophon's  army,  but 
also  the  tragic  assaults  of  fate,  with  Promethean  nobility. 
Festivity  must  be  beautiful  and  pleasure  joyous.  Self- 
restraint  must  be  more  than  temperance :  it  must  include  a 


830  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

moderation  of  zeal  and  even  of  worldly  ambition.  And, 
above  all,  the  rational  life  must  find  expression  less  in  con- 
templation than  in  political  activity.  In  Plato's  thought,  so 
marvellously  worked  out  in  the  pages  of  the  "  Republic,"  of 
the  state  as  the  perfect  expression  of  man's  rational  and  moral 
nature ;  in  the  demonstration,  so  convincingly  made  by  Aris- 
totle in  the  "  Politics,"  that  the  state  exists  for  the  good  life, 
and  that  only  in  the  state  does  man  achieve  the  perfection 
of  his  rational  personality,  we  have  a  form  of  the  fourth  ideal 
to  which  no  Eastern  people  ever  attained. 

To  many  readers  it  will  seem  a  questionable  assertion,  if 
we  say  that  Rome  likewise  completed  the  cycle  of  moral  evo- 
lution, and  then,  combining  the  ideals  in  a  complex  civiliza- 
tion, so  developed  the  higher  ones  as  to  strengthen  their 
influence  over  the  human  mind  for  all  coming  time.  We  are 
so  accustomed  to  think  of  Rome  as  the  unsurpassed  embodi- 
ment of  power  and  magnificence,  that  we  have  some  difficulty 
in  thinking  of  her  also  as  a  guardian  of  the  ideals  of  austerity 
and  justice,  of  reason,  conscience,  and  liberty.  Rome  the  con- 
queror, the  mistress  of  the  world,  the  seat  of  unrivalled 
splendour,  of  unbridled  indulgence,  —  these  are  pictures  that 
we  know ;  but  when  did  Rome  become  the  teacher  of  self- 
denial,  and  when  the  promulgator  of  highest  wisdom?  When 
did  she  subordinate  pride  or  pleasure  to  her  own  conception 
of  justice,  and  when  did  she  conceive  of  liberty  ? 

It  will  not  be  denied  that  very  early  in  her  history  Rome 
rose  above  the  rude  ideal  of  power  cherished  by  her  tribal 
kings,  and  above  the  rude  ideal  of  splendour  which  found 
varied  expression  under  the  Etruscan  supremacy.  Through- 
out the  earlier  years  of  the  republic  life  was  strenuous.  It 
called  for  sacrifice  and  restraint  not  less  than  for  courage,  and 
it  soon  became  dominated  by  an  ideal  of  austerity,  perhaps 
quite  as  severe  as  has  been  elsewhere  seen.  Already  we 
have  observed  that  the  name  "  Roman,"  no  less  than  the  word 
"Puritan,"  is  historically  associated  with  the  austere  character. 
It  was  not  only  in  character,  however,  that  this  ideal  found 
expression  in  early  Roman  days.  Still  more  important  was 
its  objective   expression  in  Roman  law.     As  in  the  farther 


THE   IDEALS  OF  NATIONS  331 

East  objective  expression  of  the  ideal  of  restraint  had  taken 
the  form  of  ceremonial  righteousness,  and  as  in  Greece  it  had 
begun  to  take  the  form  of  civic  order,  so  in  Rome  for  the  first 
time  it  became  a  true  civil  law,  formulating  rules  of  justice 
that  could  be  made  of  universal  application.  In  the  later 
days  of  the  republic  the  ideals  of  rational  personality  also, 
and  of  disinterested  citizenship  as  its  objective  medium, 
which  had  found  expression  in  Greece,  were  entertained 
by  the  best  Roman  minds,  as  the  writings  of  Cicero  prove. 

Nevertheless,  we  have  fallen  into  the  belief  that  these  were 
not  controlling  ideals  among  the  Roman  people,  because  both 
austerity  and  a  sincerely  rational  life  were  apparently  over- 
whelmed by  the  materialism  of  the  empire.  We  assume  that, 
after  attaining  for  a  brief  period  to  a  higher  moral  life,  Rome, 
at  the  death  of  Julius  Csesar,  fell  back  to  a  lower  level,  and 
from  that  hour  declined  in  spiritual  worth  as  she  grew  in 
military  strength  and  amassed  material  wealth. 

Yet  it  is  certain  that  this  belief  and  this  assumption  are  er- 
roneous. In  reality  it  was  in  the  very  age  of  Augustus,  when 
the  ideal  of  splendour  and  enjoyment  had  apparently  en- 
thralled all  classes,  that  a  reaction  against  excess  and  a 
devotion  to  the  highest  interests  of  the  spiritual  life  had 
already  begun.  I  do  not  here  refer  to  the  revival  of  literature 
in  that  age,  which  in  itself  was  a  sufficient  proof  that 
rational  thought  and  artistic  expression  were  at  least  not 
extinct.  Far  more  significant  was  the  return  to  austerity 
among  the  common  people,  which  found  a  definite  if  strange 
expression  in  the  rapid  growth  of  ascetic  sects  that  had 
sprung  up  in  many  parts  of  the  empire,  and  preached  a  doc- 
trine of  self-denial,  —  sects  of  which  the  Essenes  in  Palestine 
were  a  type,  and  John  the  Baptist  a  warning  voice.  These 
sects  prepared  the  soil  for  that  new  religion  of  renunciation 
of  the  world,  that  faith  in  the  infinite  value  of  spiritual  life 
as  compared  with  all  earthly  happiness,  which  spread  from 
Nazareth  throughout  the  Western  world. 

To  show  that,  from  this  reaction  against  the  excesses  of 
material  splendour,  the  Roman  people  went  on  to  develop 
anew  the  fourth  and  highest  ideal  of  life,  it  would  be  suffi- 


332  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

cient  to  recall  the  steady  encroachments  of  the  Christian 
faith,  both  in  the  imperial  city  and  in  the  provinces,  until  the 
emperors  as  well  as  the  common  people  embraced  the  new 
religion,  and  at  least  nominally  accepted  its  conceptions 
of  human  personality.  It  is  not  necessary,  however,  to  de- 
pend upon  this  line  of  proof.  There  was  another  and  not 
less  interesting  mode  in  which  the  progress  of  thought  carried 
the  better  sort  of  Roman  minds  beyond  all  lower  ideals  of 
human  achievement  to  the  conception  of  a  perfect  rationality, 
and  of  its  embodiment  in  civil  institutions,  as  the  goal  of 
both  national  and  individual  endeavour. 

This  was  nothing  less  than  the  intense,  the  often  self- 
denying  devotion,  of  the  ablest  men  in  the  legal  and  adminis- 
trative service  of  the  empire  to  the  perfection  of  the  Roman 
law,  to  the  formulation  of  the  Roman  rules  of  administration, 
and  to  the  transmission  of  this  superb  body  of  human  wisdom 
to  those  Northern  races,  which  all  far-seeing  men  knew  must 
overrun  the  Roman  dominions  and  establish  a  new  national 
life  upon  the  ruins  of  Roman  greatness.  It  is  a  pity  that  we 
have  not  more  definite  personal  biographies  of  the  men  who 
devoted  their  lives  to  this  vast  work.  But  we  are  unable  to 
doubt  that  they  were  many,  or  that  they  performed  their 
task  with  a  sincere  disinterestedness  of  purpose  possible  only 
to  those  who  look  into  the  future,  and  know  that  they  are 
working  for  the  perfection  of  men  not  yet  aware  of  the  bless- 
ings to  be  handed  down  to  them  as  a  legacy  of  civilization. 
On  no  other  hypothesis  can  we  account  for  the  marvellous 
fact  that  the  noblest  product  of  legal  intelligence  and  admin- 
istrative experience  which  the  modern  world  has  inherited 
from  the  past  was  preserved  so  nearly  unimpaired  through- 
out those  terrible  centuries  when  Vandal  barbarians  were 
levelling  in  ruins  the  material  monuments  of  Rome's  im- 
perial greatness.  This  priceless  heritage  we  owe  to  thousands 
of  obscure  men,  whose  very  names  have  perished  from  his- 
tory, —  men  who  believed  that  Rome's  enduring  contribution 
to  the  advancement  of  mankind  was  not  her  material  monu- 
ments, but  her  rules  of  justice,  of  equity,  and  of  civil  order, 
and  who  saw  that  in  the  preservation  of  these  Rome  could 


THE  IDEALS  OF  NATIONS  333 

perpetuate  her  spirit  throughout  all  coming  ages.  Surely  to 
a  people  that  produced  such  men,  we  cannot  deny  apprecia- 
tion of  the  highest  of  ideals. 

On  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  Empire  slowly  grew  the  nations 
of  modern  Europe.  Created  out  of  similar  racial  elements 
and  developing  side  by  side,  they  have  had  histories  in  many 
respects  closely  parallel ;  and  the  evolution  of  their  moral 
characteristics  has  been  more  nearly  the  same  than  was  ever 
true  of  contemporaneous  peoples  in  the  Eastern  world.  In 
each  nation  the  early  devotion  to  the  ideal  of  power  was 
conspicuous  in  every  form  of  expression.  The  heroic  epic 
and  the  legend  of  the  age  of  migration  faithfully  reflect  the 
barbaric  strength,  the  social  anarchy,  the  ruthless  brutality, 
of  that  period  of  national  creation.  After  feudalism  and  the 
growth  of  the  mediseval  towns,  when  kingly  power  was  con- 
solidated in  France,  England,  and  Spain,  the  chief  desire 
everywhere  was  to  establish  the  new  national  life  on  secure 
foundations  and  to  make  its  government  feared  throughout 
the  world.  Then  came  the  period  of  the  rapid  evolution  of 
prosperity  and  of  material  well-being.  The  geographical 
discoveries  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  the  rapid 
colonization  of  distant  lands,  brought  vast  wealth  to  all  the 
enterprising  nations,  and  new  desires  and  ideals.  The  splen- 
dour of  Spain  in  the  age  of  Charles  V.  and  of  Philip  II.,  of 
France  in  the  reigns  of  Louis  XIII.  and  of  Louis  XIV.,  —  the 
France  of  Richelieu  and  of  Mazarin,  —  the  splendour  of  Eng- 
land in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  —  these  were  products  of  the 
new  prosperity  and  of  national  devotion  to  ideals  of  pleasure 
no  less  than  of  power. 

The  reaction  came  with  the  awakening  of  the  common 
mind  and  of  the  thoughtful  leaders  of  religious  movements 
to  the  corruption  that  had  survived  through  the  upheavals  of 
the  Reformation,  and  still  bound  men  to  materialism  of  life, 
notwithstanding  the  awakening  of  their  higher  natures  by 
the  Renaissance  and  the  ecclesiastical  revolution.  The 
Puritan  movement  in  England  was  its  most  complete  ex- 
pression ;  but  elsewhere  also, — in  France,  in  Germany,  and  in 


334  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

the  Netherlands,  not  to  mention  the  republic  of  Geneva  —  the 
same  reaction  toward  austerity  of  thought  and  morals  was 
visible.  This  movement  was  by  far  the  most  complete 
development  of  the  third  ideal  of  individual  character  and 
national  achievement  which  had  thus  far  been  attained  in 
history.  In  the  Eastern  world,  this  ideal  never  passed  beyond 
fragmentary  expression.  It  was  never  perfectly  developed, 
though  it  undoubtedly  was  reached  in  Greece  and  in  Rome. 
But  in  western  Europe  it  marked  a  distinct  epoch  of  history, 
and  gave  its  name  to  a  mode  of  life,  a  philosophy,  and  an 
interpretation  of  religion,  which  will  continue  to  influence 
mankind  for  generations. 

For  western  Europe  also  was  reserved  a  final  development 
of  the  ideal  of  an  expanding  rational  life.  India  did  not  get 
beyond  the  notion  of  wisdom,  attained  through  renunciation ; 
Athens  developed  the  idea  of  a  symmetrically  rounded  life, 
of  rational  knowledge  and  political  activity,  but  did  not  con- 
ceive of  an  indefinite  improvement  for  all  mankind;  Rome 
took  up  a  self-denying  educational  work  for  future  genera- 
tions, but  rather  to  conserve  the  past  than  to  create  new  pos- 
sibilities. Only  in  the  West,  and  in  very  modern  times,  has  the 
fourth  ideal  of  nations  become  a  conception  of  progress,  — 
the  thought  of  an  ever  continuing  emancipation  and  enlight- 
enment of  the  whole  human  race. 

There  are,  therefore,  certain  specific  facts  in  the  external 
history,  and  in  the  development  of  the  content  of  the  liberal 
ideal  in  its  modern  form,  which  are  deserving  of  special 
notice. 

An  increasing  emphasis  has  been  placed  on  liljerty.  The 
ideal  now  stands  for  a  complete  emancipation  from  every 
form  of  useless  bondage,  both  in  civil  and  in  moral  law.  It 
affirms  that  only  in  perfect  freedom  can  the  human  spirit 
attain  the  complete  realization  of  its  potential  life.  It  does 
not,  however,  deny  the  necessity  of  order  and  jDroportiou. 
Our  notion  of  liberty  is  not  anarchy,  civil  or  moral.  To 
every  restraint  and  limitation  we  apply  the  test  of  utility. 
Restraints  that  are  needful  for  peace,  for  order,  or  for  safety, 
are  not  only  to  be  tolerated,  but  are  carefully  to  be  cherished. 


THE   IDEALS  OF  NATIONS  335 

But  restraints  that  can  give  no  utilitarian  account  of  them- 
selves should  as  fast  as  possible  be  swept  away.  We  all  know 
that  this  particular  phase  of  the  ideal  of  perfection  in  its  modern 
expression  is  a  product  of  the  great  Revolution,  which  brought 
the  human  mind  face  to  face  with  fundamental  problems. 

Again,  the  modern  content  of  this  highest  ideal  of  nations 
includes  that  idea  which,  in  literature  and  art,  is  known  as 
Romanticism.  To  the  Eastern  sage,  perfection  of  life  was 
conceivable  in  terms  of  absolute  renunciation  of  everything 
unessential  or  adventitious ;  to  the  Greek  it  was  conceivable 
in  terms  of  a  perfect  proportion  and  coordination  of  parts. 
Undoubtedly,  the  highest  expression  of  the  Greek  form  of 
the  ultimate  human  ideal  is  found  in  Plato's  "Republic." 
The  life  in  which  every  passion  is  subordinated  to  reason, 
in  which  all  activities  are  in  equilibrium ;  the  state  in  which 
there  is  a  perfect  division  of  labour,  an  exact  adaption  of 
every  man  to  his  civic  function,  —  such  is  the  perfected 
whole,  in  both  public  and  private  existence.  This  ideal, 
like  that  of  the  East,  contemplates  the  actual  attainment  of 
a  perfection  beyond  which  no  further  progress  can  be  made. 
Sharply  marking  off  the  modern  ideal  from  all  ideals  of  the 
past  is  its  recognition  of  limitless  possibilities,  of  the  infinite 
distance  of  absolute  perfection ;  its  recognition  of  a  bound- 
less opportunity  for  further  endeavour ;  its  subordination  of 
all  form  and  rule  in  life  and  in  art  to  content,  of  the  means 
of  expression  to  that  which  must  be  expressed. 

A  third  characteristic  of  the  highest  ideal  in  its  modern 
form  is  its  content  of  ardent  and  generous  feeling.  It  desires 
the  widest  opportunity  and  the  highest  attainment,  not  merely 
for  the  few,  but  equally  for  all  classes  and  all  races.  It  is 
vital  with  philanthropic  interest  and  missionary  earnestness. 
It  is  thoroughly  democratic,  and  includes  an  unbounded  faith 
in  the  future  of  the  people. 

These  elements  are  found  in  the  highest  modern  ideal,  as 
it  is  cherished  in  many  Western  nations.  Nevertheless,  in 
each  nation  they  are  combined  in  unique  ways,  so  that  in  each 
some  particular  phase  is  so  emphasized  that  we  may  easily 
distinguish  the  ideal  of  each. 


336  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

Such  national  differences  are  due  to  conditions  which,  in 
different  countries,  have  brought  about  different  develop- 
ments of  liberty  and  progress,  and  have  produced  also  differ- 
ent types  of  the  rationally  conscientious  man. 

In  England  earlier  than  on  the  Continent  the  emancipation 
of  the  serf  created  a  peculiarly  independent  type  of  the  indi- 
vidual. As  has  been  shown  elsewhere  in  this  volume,  the 
destruction  of  the  economic  equality  of  villain  tenants  on 
the  manor  was  quickly  followed  by  the  rise  of  the  vigorous 
and  enterprising  to  competence,  or  even  to  prosperity,  and  by 
the  sinking  of  the  incompetent  to  the  level  of  wage  earners. 
The  industrial  opportunities,  the  mechanical  inventions,  and 
the  commercial  activity  that  combined  to  make  the  social 
transformation  possible,  were  fostered  by  the  firm  establish- 
ment and  rapid  growth  of  Protestantism  in  religion.  In 
England,  therefore,  the  rational  man  soon  became  the  highly 
individualized  man  ;  while  the  broadening  of  economic  oppor- 
tunity and  the  supremacy  of  Protestantism  conspired  with 
national  character  and  traditions  to  insure  the  firm  estab- 
lishment of  political  and  civil  liberty.  And  so  it  has  come 
about  that  in  the  England  of  to-day  the  highly  individualized 
character  and  individual  liberty  to  act  are  supremely  valued. 
Every  man  must  be  permitted  to  follow  out  his  own  initiative 
to  the  extent  of  his  powers,  and  to  make  his  own  career. 
The  truth  that  government  is  only  a  means  to  an  end  is  not 
often  forgotten,  and  even  the  lesser  forms  of  social  coopera- 
tion are  more  or  less  jealously  regarded  if  they  seem  in  any 
degree  to  diminish  self-reliance  or  to  curtail  individual  oppor- 
tunity. 

Across  the  Channel  conditions  united  as  inevitably  to  create 
a  strong  sense  of  social  solidarity,  a  highly  socialized  type  of 
personal  character,  and  a  zealous  devotion  to  the  idea  of 
equality  rather  than  to  that  of  individual  or  civil  liberty,  in 
tlie  English  sense  of  the  term.  Industrial  emancipation  was 
long  delayed.  Protestantism  was  stamped  out  by  persecu- 
tion, and  with  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  the  men 
and  women  whose  self-reliance  or  individualistic  tendencies 
were  too  pronounced  sought  safety  in  expatriation.     Feudal 


THE  IDEALS  OF  NATIONS  337 

abuses  and  the  sort  of  absolutism  that  goes  with  hereditary- 
kingship  were  overthrown  with  the  Revolution,  but  absolut- 
ism of  another  kind  was  not ;  and  a  centralized  administration 
continued  to  strangle  local  independence.  Meanwhile,  among 
the  common  people  an  approximate  equality  of  conditions  was 
established  by  the  letelling  provisions  of  the  revolutionary 
and  Napoleonic  codes. 

Blending  with  a  love  of  economic  equality,  thus  created  in 
France,  was  a  shadowy  notion  of  the  subjective  equality  of  men, 
which  found  literary  incarnation  in  the  philosophy  of  Rous- 
seau. It  seems  to  have  sprung  from  a  conjugation  of  three 
distinct  ideas.  Two  of  these  were  theological,  or  perhaps 
even  religious,  in  character.  The  notion  that  all  men  are 
divinely  created  souls,  whose  intellectual  faculties  are  only 
a  penumbra,  carried  with  it  the  implication  that,  in  their 
inmost  being  as  souls,  all  men  in  the  sight  of  God  their 
Creator  are  equal.  Again,  according  to  theological  views, 
all  men  have  sinned,  and  can  be  reclaimed  from  sin  only  by 
an  act  of  divine  grace.  This  notion  also  by  implication  con- 
tains the  assumption  that  men  essentially  are  equal.  The 
third  component  notion  in  the  idea  of  equality  may  have 
been  derived  from  theology  indirectly,  but  its  immediate 
source  is  Romanticism.  If  every  man  has  possibilities  of 
improvement  to  which  no  limits  can  be  assigned  —  or,  to  put 
the  proposition  a  little  more  strongly,  if  the  inequalities 
among  men  are  due  to  circumstances,  to  limiting  finite  con- 
ditions, and  if  any  man  with  proper  instruction,  favourable 
conditions,  and  unlimited  time  can  make  infinite  progress  in 
knowledge  and  well-doing  —  then,  obviously,  men  are  essen- 
tially equal,  since  infinite  quantities  of  the  same  category  can- 
not be  unequal.  Thus  the  conception  of  subjective  equality  is 
mystical  rather  than  practical.  Held  as  an  article  of  faith  by 
the  mystical  and  the  romantic,  it  is  unacceptable  to  those  who 
give  more  attention  to  finite,  concrete  realities  of  the  here 
and  now,  than  to  the  infinite  possibilities  of  an  unknown  to- 
morrow. This  is  at  least  a  part  of  the  reason  why  equality 
is  so  strongly  emphasized  in  the  highest  ideals  of  France, 
while  England  supremely  values  liberty. 


338  DEMOCRACY  AND   EMPIRE 

Thoroughly  Protestant  and  practical,  England  cares  for  the 
concrete  achievements  of  the  present.  Men,  as  she  regards 
thera,  may  or  may  not  be  equal  in  their  metaphysical  being  or 
in  their  potentialities :  for  practical  purposes  of  everyday  busi- 
ness and  everyday  politics  they  are  unequal  in  an  extreme 
degree ;  and  it  is  practical  common-sense  to  let  the  best  of 
them  achieve  their  best  without  too  many  hampering  restric- 
tions. France  is  still  to  a  great  degree  Catholic  in  sentiment, 
if  not  in  confession,  and  is  still  mystical  in  feeling,  if  not  in 
profession.  To  her  it  matters  little  that  individual  liberty  is 
imperfect,  as  long  as  men  who  feel  a  strong  sense  of  social  soli- 
darity may  meet  on  the  same  plane  and  cherish  the  same 
visions.  Thus  a  touch  of  enthusiasm  (some  observers  would 
say  of  fanaticism)  is  added  to  the  Frenchman's  thought  of 
equality.  On  the  whole,  however,  French  equality  is  ob- 
jective. The  Frenchman  does  not  insist  that  men  are  equal 
in  talents  or  in  virtue.  What  he  chiefly  demands  is  exter- 
nal equality  —  of  conditions,  of  opportunity,  of  benefits  from 
societj'^,  from  education,  and  cultural  institutions,  —  in  short, 
equality  of  treatment.  Consequently,  his  thought  is  largely 
centred  upon  the  functions  of  government  and  its  provision 
for  each  and  all  of  its  subjects. 

Do  we  find  that  anywhere  these  two  ideals  —  of  liberty  and 
equality  —  are  synthetically  combined?  Is  combination  the 
significance,  perhaps,  of  the  American  spirit  of  fraternity,  of 
the  American  passion  for  comprehensiveness?  England  has 
produced  the  individualized  man,  and  France  the  socialized 
man ;  is  America  at  last  creating  the  inclusive,  the  universal- 
ized man  ?  Surely  such  is  not  an  altogether  fanciful  belief. 
At  least  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  the  inclusive  char- 
acter, and  an  equity  in  which  liberty  and  equality  are  recon- 
ciled, are  our  ideals.  The  American,  like  the  Englishman,  is 
to  a  great  extent  practical,  hard-headed,  Protestant.  He 
keenly  realizes  the  opportunities  of  the  concrete  present. 
He  understands  the  meaning  of  all  finite  limitations ;  he 
knows  that,  within  any  given  field  of  practical  activity,  men 
are  widely  unequal  in  their  relation  to  a  definite  end  to  be  at- 
tained.    But  America  is  not  wholly  an  offspring  of  English 


THE  IDEALS  OF  NATIONS  339 

race  and  thought.  America  is  also  Celtic,  Gallic,  and  Teu- 
tonic ;  it  is  Catholic  as  well  as  Protestant ;  and  different 
modes  of  race  thought  and  feeling,  different  religious  views 
and  sentiments,  have  here  become  strangely  united.  If  more 
than  the  Frenchman  the  American  is  practical,  he  more  than 
the  Englishman  is  sentimental.  His  assertion  of  liberty  is  less 
uncompromising  than  the  Englishman's,  and  his  interest  in 
equality  is  more  subjective  and  less  practical  than  the  French- 
man's. Notwithstanding  their  alleged  materialism,  Americans 
are  really  less  concerned  about  external  conditions,  and  are 
more  intent  upon  the  subjective  attitude  of  each  man  toward 
his  neighbour,  than  are  any  people  of  Europe.  The  American 
likes  to  be  estimated,  not  in  terms  of  his  station  in  life,  which 
may  be  more  or  less  an  accidental  matter,  and  not  in  terms  of 
the  opportunities  that  he  has  enjoyed,  but  in  terms  of  his  per- 
sonal worth.  He  likes  to  know  that  his  neighbour  thinks  him 
intrinsically  as  good  as  anybody.  Within  limits  of  reason  he 
is  willing  to  admit  that  other  men  are  as  good  as  himself. 
Thus,  if  sometimes  in  the  business  of  the  week  he  is  too  will- 
ing to  sacrifice  the  economic  equality  of  his  fellow-men  to  his 
own  worldly  success,  he  nevertheless,  in  hours  of  relaxation 
and  contemplation,  cherishes  a  belief  in  the  unlimited  poten- 
tialities of  even  the  meanest  of  human  creatures,  and  is  willing 
to  do  much  to  prove  that,  in  a  large  measure,  the  potential- 
ities of  the  common  humanity  can  be  realized  under  favouring 
opportunities.  To  a  degree  perhaps  never  before  seen  in 
history,  the  American  who,  through  liberty  and  present 
acceptance  of  the  practical  point  of  view,  has  achieved  a 
worldly  success,  stands  ready  in  the  spirit  of  fraternity  to 
reach  out  a  helping  hand  to  the  brother  who  has  not  yet 
succeeded,  and  to  aid  him  in  every  possible  way  to  attain  the 
objects  of  his  desire. 

The  creation  of  ideals  is  one  of  the  highest  activities  of 
the  human  mind.  Into  his  ideal  enters  man's  estimate  of 
the  past  and  his  forecast  of  the  future ;  his  scientific  analysis, 
and  his  poetic  feeling;  his  soberest  judgment,  and  his  reli- 
gious aspiration.      Yet  in  the  growth  of  the  most  spiritual 


340  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ideal,  as  in  that  of  the  humblest  material  organism,  we  have 
a  perfect  illustration  of  the  laws  of  evolution.  The  ideal,  no 
less  than  any  phenomenon  of  physical  life,  is  a  product  of 
ceaseless  transformations  of  energy,  of  continual  re-groupings 
of  things,  of  an  endless  struggle  for  existence.  In  its  origin 
a  simple  mental  picture  of  a  character  that  is  adapted  to  the 
dominant  conditions  of  life,  the  ideal  is  slowly  transformed, 
by  both  integration  and  differentiation,  until  it  becomes  too 
complex  for  any  perfect  portrayal.  This  continuity  of  its 
evolution  is  the  spiritual  thread  of  history ;  it  is  the  succes- 
sion and  combination  of  historic  themes.  The  Egyptian  and 
the  Chaldean  created  the  ideals  of  valorous  and  pleasure- 
loving  men;  China,  Persia,  and  Judea,  of  self-denying  and 
austere  men ;  India,  of  the  rationally  conscientious  man,  — 
who  in  Hindustan  is  contemplative  and  compassionate ;  in 
Japan,  sensitive ;  in  Greece,  appreciative  of  every  form  of  truth 
and  beauty ;  in  Rome,  constructive  ;  and  in  the  farther  and  later 
West,  scientific,  —  in  England  individualized,  in  France 
socialized,  in  America,  where  West  again  becomes  East,  uni- 
versalized. Egypt  and  Babylonia  created  the  national  ideals 
of  power  and  splendour ;  Iran  and  Judea  of  ceremonial  right- 
eousness. Greece  created  the  ideal  of  citizenship ;  Rome  the 
ideal  of  justice.  England  has  created  the  ideal  of  civil  lib- 
erty ;  France  the  ideal  of  social  equality.  America  is  slowly 
but  surely  creating  the  ideal  of  a  broad  and  perfect  equity, 
in  which  liberty  and  equality  shall  for  all  time  be  reconciled 
and  combined. 


XX 

THE  GOSPEL   OF  NON-RESISTANCE 


XX 

THE  GOSPEL  OF  NON-RESISTANCE 

A  CONFORMING  of  life  to  the  letter  of  the  Christian  gos- 
pels has  been  demanded  by  many  sincere  and  by  some  brill- 
iant minds  in  every  century  of  the  Christian  era.  It  is 
probably  the  name  of  Count  Leo  Tolstoi,  however,  that 
will  henceforth  be  associated  with  the  doctrine  that  true 
Christian  living  involves  the  surrender  of  earthly  posses- 
sions and  perfect  obedience  of  the  command  to  resist  not 
evil.  His  analysis  of  the  spiritual  content  of  Christ's  teach- 
ing, his  illustration  of  it  from  his  individual  experience,  and 
his  application  of  it  to  the  world  of  modern  industry  and 
politics  —  so  radically  at  variance  with  the  creed  of  non- 
aggression —  gives  to  his  work  a  depth  and  completeness 
never  found  in  any  previous  attempts  of  this  nature ;  and 
it  is  therefore  not  surprising  that  every  day  adds  to  the 
number  of  disciples  who,  if  they  are  not  yet  prepared  to 
put  teachings  into  practice,  are  nevertheless  inwardly  con- 
vinced that  they  are  truth  and  ought  to  be  applied  in  life. 

It  is  a  curious  phenomenon,  —  this  growth  of  conviction 
among  intelligent  people  that  the  world  would  be  better  off 
if  it  accepted  literally  the  gospel  of  non-resistance,  while  yet 
each  civilized  nation  is  strengthening  its  military  resources 
and  its  armaments,  and  is  intently  watching  every  move  of 
its  rivals,  all  of  whom  are  hoping  to  secure  as  large  territo- 
rial acquisitions  as  possible  in  the  final  partition  of  the  unde- 
veloped regions  of  the  earth.  It  is  a  phenomenon  that  raises 
again  the  question,  as  old  as  human  curiosity,  whether  there 
is  an  inherent  contradiction  in  the  moral  nature  of  man.  Is 
he  forever  doomed  to  follow  one  course  of  action,  which  com- 
mon-sense tells  him  is  expedient  or  practicable,  while  always 
believing  that  it  is  wrong  in  principle  —  that  he  ought  to  set 

343 


344  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

his  face  against  it,  and  with  self-surrender  strive  for  the  real- 
ization of  ideals  to  which  nature  seems  to  have  put  the  very- 
laws  of  life  in  opposition.  The  problem  may  be  even  more 
concretely  stated.  Is  it  accident,  or  is  it  a  sardonic  joke  of 
fate,  that  the  two  chief  intellectual  movements  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  should  be  almost  perfectly  symbolized  in  the 
names  of  Darwin  and  Tolstoi ;  one  standing  for  the  doctrine 
that  all  progress  has  come  from  a  remorseless  struggle  for 
existence,  in  which  thousands  of  millions  of  sentient  crea- 
tures have  miserably  perished,  in  order  that  tens  of  millions 
may  be  somewhat  intelligent  and  moderately  happy ;  the 
other  standing  for  an  immediate  and  unquestioning  return 
to  the  teaching  that  the  strong  should  bear  the  burdens  of 
the  weak,  and  that  tlie  best  of  mankind  should  practically 
cease  to  struggle  for  their  existence  at  all,  and  should  con- 
cern themselves  only  with  the  rescue  of  such  as  are  in  danger 
of  being  submerged. 

The  answer  that  I  shall  make  to  this  question  in  the  pres- 
ent paper  may  seem  to  be  as  paradoxical  as  the  situation 
that  has  been  described ;  but  this  ought  not  to  bar  its  seri- 
ous consideration.  Since  the  days  of  Heraclitus,  the  phi- 
losopher has  known  that  mutation  itself  is  a  paradox,  and 
that  any  interpretation  of  the  ways  of  progressive  life  must 
largely  consist  of  paradoxes.  I  therefore  make  no  apology 
for  submitting  the  proposition  that  the  struggle  for  existence 
itself  tends  to  bring  about  a  human  brotherhood  in  which 
the  non-resistance  of  evil  would  be  a  successful  working 
rule,  and  that,  as  a  fact  of  history,  this  realization  will 
come  with  the  practical  success  of  that  other  paradoxical 
organization  already  described  in  this  volume,  namely,  the 
democratic  empire. 

In  the  introduction  to  an  English  translation  of  the  works 
of  Friedrich  Nietzsche,  Professor  Alexander  Tille  reminds  us 
that  even  among  the  evolutionists  there  is  a  contradiction 
of  views.  It  is  nearly  as  radical,  indeed,  as  the  Ijroader  con- 
tradiction between  Darwin  and  Tolstoi.  Huxley's  famous 
Romanes  lecture  was  the  first  frank  confession  of  a  moral 
difficulty  into  which  the  evolutionists  had  drifted.     In  sub- 


THE   GOSPEL   OF  NON-EESISTANCE  345 

stance,  Huxley's  admission  was,  that  in  the  process  of  natural 
selection  there  is  no  place  for  the  virtues  of  compassion  and 
generosity,  or  for  the  ideals  of  peace  and  human  brother- 
hood. The  struggle  for  existence  is  one  in  which  physical 
strength,  shrewdness,  cunning,  treachery,  cruelty,  have  all 
had  place,  and  presumably  must  continue  to  be  important 
factors.  Speaking  for  himself,  Huxley  was  prepared  to  sac- 
rifice the  further  results  that  might  be  won  in  a  struggle 
for  existence,  and  to  accept  a  certain  deterioration  of  the 
race,  if  need  be,  for  the  sake  of  saving  those  sympathies 
and  ideals  that  are  most  widely  opposed  to  egoistic  self- 
assertion.  "  Let  us  understand  once  for  all,"  he  says,  "  that 
the  ethical  progress  of  society  depends  not  on  imitating  the 
cosmic  process,  still  less  in  running  away  from  it,  but  in 
combating  it."  He  admits  that  this  is  "an  audacious  pro- 
posal"; but  he  thinks  that  man's  ends  are  higher  than  the 
ends  of  nature,  and  hopes  "  that  such  an  enterprise  may 
meet  with  a  certain  measure  of  success." 

There  are,  of  course,  many  evolutionists  who  deny  that 
there  is  such  a  fundamental  contradiction  between  the  pro- 
cess of  natural  selection  and  the  process  of  moral  effort  based 
on  ideas  of  sympathy  and  justice.  They  urge  that  the  higher 
and  greater  struggles  have  taken  place,  not  between  individuals, 
but  between  groups,  and  that  natural  selection  among  races 
and  nations  has  accomplished  more  for  man,  even  in  reference 
to  his  physical  well-being  and  his  power  to  perpetuate  a  sturdy 
race,  than  a  purely  individual  struggle  could  have  done.  For 
group  cohesion,  toleration,  sympathy,  a  certain  degree  of  will- 
ingness to  forgive,  compassion,  and  helpfulness,  have  been  nec- 
essary. These  virtues,  it  is  contended,  are  as  much  a  product 
of  natural  selection  as  are  force  and  cunning. 

Recently,  this  argument  has  seriously  been  threatened  by 
the  later  biology,  with  its  theories  of  the  non-transmission  of 
acquired  characteristics,  and  its  corollary  of  panmixia,  or  the 
doctrine  that  when,  within  a  group,  the  struggle  for  existence 
practically  ceases  among  individuals,  and  those  elements  which 
such  a  struggle  would  eliminate  are  combined  in  an  indis- 
criminate mixture  by  intermarriage  with  elements  that  would 


346  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

normally  survive,  the  result  is  a  progressive  deterioration  of 
the  race,  which  then,  even  in  the  most  favourable  circum- 
stances, hardly  maintains  itself  above  mediocrity. 

This  notion,  elaborated  by  severe  scientific  methods  at  the 
hands  of  statistical  investigators  like  Sir  Francis  Galton,  has 
been  seized  upon  by  the  students  of  pathological  nervous  phe- 
nomena and  by  the  more  sturdy-minded  critics  of  modern 
literature  and  art,  as  affording  the  true  explanation  of  what, 
in  the  slang  of  the  day,  we  call  decadence.  In  panmixia, 
—  itself  a  product  of  sympathy,  philanthropy,  and  moral  re- 
straints in  general  —  we  are  supposed  to  have  the  cause  of 
nervous  exhaustion,  hysteria,  and  increasing  insanity,  and  of 
innumerable  manifestations  in  music,  fiction,  and  plastic  art, 
of  an  unhealthy  emotionalism,  begotten  of  neurotic  and  erotic 
degeneration. 

In  the  writings  of  Friedrich  Nietzsche  we  have  the  attempt 
to  reduce  all  this  to  a  philosophical  theory,  and  to  present  its 
logical  implications.  Nietzsche  assumes  that  Darwinism,  in 
its  most  radical  form  of  Weismannism,  is  the  only  true 
account  of  man's  place  in  nature,  the  only  true  presentation 
of  man's  own  nature  and  possible  destiny.  To  ignore  it  is 
only  to  be  an  ostrich,  hiding  your  head  in  the  sand;  to 
combat  it,  as  Huxley  advises,  is  only  to  kick  against  the 
pricks  with  an  imbecile  uselessness  that  Paul  never  dreamed 
of.  You  may  attempt,  if  you  like,  to  make  men  "  good  "  in 
that  sense  which  includes  compassion  and  disinterestedness ; 
but  all  you  will  get  for  your  pains  is  a  race  of  dyspeptics, 
anaemics,  and  neurotics,  whose  pathway  to  everlasting  dark- 
ness will  be  not  less  broad  and  straight,  but  only  less  grew- 
some  than  the  swift  extinction  which  falls  to  the  unfit  when 
natural  selection  is  unimpeded.  Therefore,  according  to 
Nietzsche's  philosophy,  men  of  sense  should  set  their  faces 
sternly  against  everything  that  smacks  of  softness,  forgive- 
ness, and  conventional  morality.  Above  all,  they  should  con- 
demn and  combat  the  traditional  Christianity  and  all  romantic 
ideals  of  equality.  "Equality  to  the  equal,  inequality  to  the 
unequal,  —  that,"  he  says,  "would  be  the  true  teaching  of 
justice."     That  which  men  should  strive  for  is  physiological 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  NON-RESISTANCE  347 

power,  perfect  physiological  naturalness.  Whatever  is  more 
than  these  cometh  of  evil.  Might  really  does  make  right ; 
and  power,  will,  ability,  the  biological  perfection  of  the  race, 
—  these  are  the  only  sure  marks  of  excellence. 

Here  we  have  the  complete  and  radical  contradiction  of 
that  radical,  literal  type  of  Christianity  which  Tolsto'i  rep- 
resents. Tolstoi  and  Nietzsche,  these  are  the  opposite  poles 
of  nineteenth-century  thought.  That  Nietzsche  lives  in  a 
lunatic  asylum,  to  wliich  the  authorities  have  consigned  him, 
and  that  Tolstoi,  in  the  belief  of  some  of  his  readers,  dwells 
in  a  lunatic  asylum  of  his  own  devising,  should  not  com- 
plicate the  issue  for  our  minds.  Each  man  has  been  sane 
enough,  or  sane  long  enough,  to  give  unmistakable  expres- 
sion to  a  perfectly  definite,  comprehensible  thought. 

The  criticism  of  these  contradictory  notions  may  best 
begin  with  the  reflection  that,  if  the  present  characteristics 
and  activities  of  mankind  are  themselves  products  of  evolu- 
tion and  continuing  manifestations  of  its  process,  the  pro- 
cess itself  does  not  tend  toward  the  severely  simple  form  of 
the  struggle  for  existence  of  which  Nietzsche  approves ;  and 
it  is  as  yet  very  far  from  ending  in  that  absolute  panmixia 
which  might  result  from  the  perfect  application  of  Tolstoi's 
view  to  the  everyday  lives  of  civilized  men.  To  a  great 
extent  the  mass  of  mankind  is  still  engaged  in  combat,  ag- 
gression, conquest,  and  remorseless  competition.  It  has  not 
gotten  rid  of  all  its  cruel  instincts  or  suppressed  the  passion  of 
vengeance.  Yet  it  tempers  its  brutality  with  sympathy ;  it 
olTsets  selfishness  with  generosity ;  and  it  supplements  its 
outbursts  of  anger  with  mercy  and  forgiveness.  As  a  mere 
fact  of  observation,  then,  it  is  clear  that  neither  the  phi- 
losophy of  Nietzsche  nor  that  of  Tolstoi  is  a  true  picture  of 
reality.  And  if  we  are  really  evolutionists  in  our  faith,  this 
fact  should  go  far  to  satisfy  us  that  neither  of  these  phi- 
losophies is  a  satisfactory  statement  of  truth. 

Turning,  then,  to  a  more  explicit  scientific  criticism,  let  us 
ask  whether  the  conclusions  of  Nietzsche  are  really  contained 
in  his  premises,  and  then  ask  whether  the  teaching  of  Tolstoi, 
though  in  no  way  corresponding  to  present  reality,  may  after 


348  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

all  be  a  true  account  of  the  goal  toward  which  human  evolu- 
tion is  tending. 

The  real  premise  from  which  the  conclusions  of  Nietzsche 
are  drawn  is  the  fact  that  an  actual  struggle  for  existence  does 
doom  to  nervous  disorder,  to  mental  and  moral  abnormity,  and 
to  ultimate  extinction,  those  family  stocks  that  are  persist- 
ently weak  or  unsound  in  a  purely  physiological  sense.  Be- 
yond any  doubt,  physiological  power,  physiological  vigour,  is 
the  only  enduring  basis  of  human  excellence.  Any  contrary 
doctrine  is  a  form  of  the  self-destructive  philosophy  that  exist- 
ence itself  is  an  evil. 

The  error,  then,  of  Nietzsche  and  of  his  disciples  is  not 
in  their  assumption  of  this  major  premise.  We  shall  find 
that  it  consists  in  a  totally  inadequate  conception  of  the  myr- 
iad forms  in  which  physiological  power  may  manifest  itself, 
through  that  process  of  differentiation  which  is  an  essential 
phase  of  all  true  evolution.  This  is  really  equivalent  to  say- 
ing —  as  will  clearly  appear  in  the  sequel  —  that  the  maxim 
that  might  makes  right,  in  this  abstract  form  in  which  we  com- 
monly hear  it  quoted,  is  neither  true  nor  untrue,  but  only 
meaningless.  It  is  equivalent  to  saying  that  might  makes 
right  or  makes  wrong,  according  to  the  form  of  the  might. 
Might  differentiated,  physiological  power  manifesting  itself 
through  unnumbered  different  channels  duly  coordinated  — 
this  might  makes  right  and  is  right.  Might  crude,  undifferenti- 
ated, contending  against  might  differentiated  and  organized, 
makes  for  wrong  and  is  wrong. 

Let  us  get  further  into  the  meaning  of  these  rather  enig- 
matical phrases.  What  is  the  measure  of  physiological  power? 
Accurately  speaking,  it  is  the  amount  of  energy  absorbed, 
stored  up,  transformed,  and  given  forth  by  an  organism.  In 
the  last  analysis,  all  scientific  measurements  are  given  in  terras 
of  energy,  and  no  others  are  possible.  Accepting,  then,  this 
measure,  shall  we  find  that  a  strong,  healthy  savage,  capable 
of  slaying  any  foe  who  might  be  pitted  against  him  in  a  brutal 
duel,  is  necessarily  a  man  of  greater  physiological  power 
than  an  intelligent  business  or  professional  man  in  a  civilized 
community  ?     Without  quite  saying  so,  Nietzsche  leaves  his 


THE   GOSPEL  OF  NON-RESISTANCE  349 

readers  in  no  doubt  whatever  that  he  uncritically  assumes  the 
savage  to  be  physiologically  the  stronger  man.  Actual  tests, 
however,  by  refined  scientific  methods  might  possibly,  or  even 
probably,  demonstrate  that  the  civilized  man  is  an  organism 
drawing  from  its  environment  and  giving  forth  in  work  vastly 
more  energy  than  the  savage.  To  take  a  simple  illustration, 
the  explorer  would  have  to  search  long  and  far  to  find  a  sav- 
age who,  day  after  day,  for  ten  hours  a  day  and  six  days  in  the 
week,  could  strike  the  number  of  blows  on  an  anvil  regularly 
struck  by  an  ordinary  blacksmith  in  an  American  country  vil- 
lage. To  take  a  more  complex  illustration,  not  one  savage 
in  ten  thousand  is  capable  of  storing  up  and  giving  forth  the 
amount  of  mere  physical  energy  —  absolutely  irrespective  of 
any  skill  in  the  performance  —  that  is  expended  night  after 
night  by  an  average  violin  player  in  a  good  modern  orchestra. 
Or  once  more,  it  is  doubtful  if  anywhere  on  the  surface  of  the 
earth  the  savage  could  be  found  whose  power  to  absorb  and 
give  forth  energy  in  the  slightest  degree  approaches  that  of 
the  business  manager  of  a  great  modern  railway  system,  whose 
vitality  is  expended  in  the  thermal,  electric,  and  chemical 
changes  of  brain  activity. 

Thus  when  we  come  to  look  into  the  matter  in  a  strictly 
scientific  way,  we  find  absolutely  no  basis  for  the  assump- 
tion that,  in  point  of  mere  physiological  power,  the  animals 
and  savages  whose  struggle  for  existence  is  carried  on  en- 
tirely by  crude  modes  of  self-assertion  and  combat,  are 
superior  to  men  whose  struggle  for  existence  is  a  vastly 
more  complicated  process,  and  includes — auxiliary  or  antag- 
onistic elements,  as  you  please — the  factors  of  compassion 
and  cooperation.  Writers  like  Nietzsche  have  made  the 
assumption  only  because  they  have  failed  to  see  that  when 
energy  is  distributed  through  innumerable  channels  instead 
of  being  concentrated  in  one  or  two  —  when,  in  short,  differ- 
entiation of  the  organism  and  its  activities  has  taken  place,  — 
the  phenomenon  is  none  the  less  one  of  the  redistribution 
of  matter  and  motion;  and  that  quite  possibly  the  energy 
which  is  being  discharged  through  a  million  channels,  al- 
though  nearly  imperceptible  to  the  untrained   observer,  is 


350  DEMOCRACY   AND  EMPIRE 

enormously  greater  in  amount  than  that  which  is  being 
crudely  and  abruptly  discharged  in  one  or  two  primitive 
ways. 

The  only  other  form  in  which  the  problem  could  be  put  by 
disciples  of  Nietzsche  would  be  an  assertion  that,  after  all, 
the  performance  of  the  individual  is  not  the  important 
thing ;  that  the  physiological  vitality  essential  to  the  race  is 
that  which  takes  the  form  of  a  transmission  of  unimpaired 
and  increasing  vigour  to  posterity.  This  proposition  might 
be  admitted  without  in  any  degree  helping  the  case  of  those 
who  assail  the  kindly  virtues,  as  tending  to  undermine  physi- 
cal power  in  the  long  run.  For,  obviously,  if  it  be  true  that 
civilized  man  to-day  does,  on  the  whole,  expend  in  various 
ways  far  more  energy  than  his  savage  prototype  expended, 
it  follows  that  the  modes  of  evolutionary  progress  which 
have  produced  civilization — and  with  it  compassion,  the  desire 
for  equality,  and  all  the  other  ideal  feelings  —  have  not  really 
impaired  the  power  of  the  race  to  perpetuate  its  physiologi- 
cal vigour  in  posterity.  In  short,  without  any  violation  of 
scientific  method,  the  whole  problem  may  summarily  be  dis- 
posed of  by  reminding  the  reader  that  if  a  civilized  nation  is 
actually  able  to  conquer  and  subdue  an  uncivilized  nation 
of  equal  numbers,  the  civilized  nation  has  greater  physiologi- 
cal vigour,  and  represents  the  better  line  of  heredity. 

Therefore  what  we  actually  get  out  of  the  Darwinian  phi- 
losophy, when  it  is  worked  out  to  the  radical  conclusion  that 
physiological  vigour  is  the  basis,  and  for  all  time  must  con- 
tinue to  be  the  test,  of  policies,  expediencies,  moralities,  and 
idealisms,  is  simply  this  :  while  we  are  justified  in  assuming 
that  no  course  of  conduct  can  be  ethically  right  if  it  ends 
in  physical  deterioration,  and  that  therefore  might,  after  all, 
is  the  basis  of  right  ;  and  while,  as  Nietzsche  says,  the  will  to 
live,  the  will  to  be  powerful,  is  the  radical  form  of  all  right 
feeling  and  right  thinking ;  we  are  bound  by  every  consid- 
eration of  scientific  accuracy  to  apply  this  test  only  after 
making  sure  that  we  liave  taken  stock  of  all  the  possible 
modes  of  power,  have  observed  all  the  j^ossible  channels 
through  wliich  energy  may  be  transformed  by  the  organism. 


THE   GOSPEL  OF  NON-RESISTANCE  351 

So  doing,  we  shall  always  have  the  principle  of  differentia- 
tion as  a  minor  test  of  the  relative  values  of  differing  em- 
bodiments of  power.  The  differentiated,  organized  form  is  the 
right  one,  unless  there  is  clear  proof  that  differentiation  dimin- 
ishes power  in  quantity.  In  brief,  our  complete  test  is  this  : 
those  modes  of  conduct  are  right  which  increase  the  total 
physiological  power  of  the  race  and  differentiate  its  forms, 
or  which  differentiate  its  forms  without  diminishing  its 
amount. 

Among  the  forms  in  which  might  is  distributed  as  it  be- 
comes differentiated,  must  be  included  sympathy  and  all  its 
products.  We  need  noi  stop  to  argue  that  sympathy  in  its 
origin  is  a  physiological  phenomenon,  a  mode  of  motor  im- 
pulse, quite  as  much  a  form  of  energy  as  the  contraction  of 
muscle  which  seizes  and  masticates  prey.  It  would  be  a 
ludicrous  ignorance  of  all  scientific  facts  which  should  leave 
sympathy  out  of  the  inventory  of  manifestations  of  power. 

Not  less  are  all  the  higher  virtues  —  philanthropy,  com- 
passion, and  forgiveness  —  manifestations  of  power.  They 
have  their  origin  in  sympathy,  and  are  simply  differentia- 
tions of  motor  impulses  and  modes  of  expending  energy. 
Moreover,  it  is  only  the  men  that  have  energy  to  spare  who 
are  normally  altruistic.  On  the  physiological  side,  altruism 
is  a  mode  of  expenditure  of  any  surplus  energy  that  has  been 
left  over  from  successful  individual  struggle.  The  meek 
shall  inherit  the  earth,  not  because  they  are  meek,  but  be- 
cause, taking  one  generation  with  another,  it  is  only  the 
mighty  that  are  or  can  be  meek,  and  because  the  mighty  —  if 
normally  evolved  —  are  also  by  differentiation  meek. 

This,  then,  is  the  conception  that  we  gain  by  comparing 
those  facts  which  in  the  concrete  are  collectively  lumped  as 
"  right,"  with  facts  that  must  be  accepted  as  right  if  Dar- 
winism is  true.  Darwinism  affirms  that  total  right  equals 
might.  The  greater  might  overcomes  the  lesser  ;  the  greater 
survives,  and  must  be  accepted  as  right  on  the  whole. 
Humanity,  on  the  other  hand,  says  that  differentiated  might 
equals  right.  According  to  our  traditional  notions,  it  is 
only   when    might   has  taken   the  varied  forms   of   justice, 


352  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

sympathy,  compassion,  and  helpfulness,  that  it  becomes 
right. 

Now,  a  complete  conception  of  evolution  reveals  to  us  the 
fact  that  might  can  be  differentiated  into  numberless  special- 
ized forms,  without  diminishing  its  total  amount.  Indeed,  as 
far  any  particular  organism  or  group  of  organisms  is  con- 
cerned, there  may  be  a  continuing  increase  of  the  total  amount 
of  power  that  it  expends,  and  a  continuing  differentiation  of 
its  forms.  Integration  and  differentiation  may,  and  nor- 
mally do,  proceed  together.  The  history  of  the  race  shows 
that  there  are  organized  nations,  also,  which  have  continually 
differentiated  their  might  while  increasing  its  total  amount. 
Thus,  from  all  these  facts,  we  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that 
right  is  the  differentiation  of  might  without  diminution  of 
its  amount. 

In  this  limitation,  —  in  this  proof  that  the  total  amount  of 
human  power  must  not  be  diminished  while  its  forms  are  un- 
dergoing change  and  specialization,  we  have  the  one  invalu- 
able contribution  of  Darwinism  to  moral  philosophy,  and  the 
one  vital  truth  in  the  otherwise  exaggerated  and  often  per- 
verse teachings  of  Nietzsche.  In  two  distinct  ways  the  indi- 
vidual may  disregard  the  moral  law.  He  may  rest  satisfied  in 
the  enjoyment  and  display  of  power  in  its  crudest  expression, 
making  no  effort  to  differentiate  it  into  those  varied  and  beau- 
tiful forms  which  the  traditions  of  humanity  have  described 
as  modes  of  right  or  goodness.  Such  a  man  is  properly  re- 
garded as  brutal ;  for  such,  literally,  he  is.  He  remains  in 
the  animal  stage  of  evolution.  Or  the  individual  may  pursue 
the  higher  modes  of  activity,  centring  his  attention  upon  the 
possibilities  of  variation  until  he  has  lost  his  grip  upon  the 
sources  of  power,  and  begins  to  lose  some  measure  of  that 
total  energy  which  is  available  for  any  purpose  of  life.  The 
nation,  in  like  manner,  may  rest  satisfied  in  a  merely  brutal 
career  of  power,  manifesting  itself  in  the  crude  forms  of  con- 
quest and  material  splendour,  caring  nothing  for  those  higher 
modes  of  effort  that  are  traditionally  called  right,  including 
justice  and  charity.  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  it  may  so  exclu- 
sively give  attention  to  these  varied  and  higher  modes  of 


THE   GOSPEL  OF  NON-RESISTANCE  353 

activity  that  it  neglects  the  fundamental  duty  of  maintaining 
its  vigour  and  total  power.  It  may  even  attempt  to  suppress 
the  competitions  that  are  an  essential  part  of  the  struggle  for 
existence,  and  coddle  the  worthless  until  deterioration  begins. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  indiscriminate  benevolence  may 
increase  panmixia,  as  it  certainly  does  when  paupers  and 
criminals  are  permitted  to  breed  like  rabbits,  while  men  of 
sturdier  power  add  but  few  descendants  to  the  race.  Fur- 
thermore, there  can  be  no  doubt  that  some  nations  in  a  higher 
degree  than  others  suffer  from  neurotic  ills  and  a  diminishing 
birth-rate. 

Thus,  according  to  our  moral  rule,  nations  and  individuals 
alike  should  try  not  only  to  direct  their  energies  into  chan- 
nels of  beneficence  and  forgiveness,  but  also  to  discover  what 
limits  are  set  to  their  altruism  by  their  staying  power.  In 
short,  it  is  an  obvious  conclusion  from  our  conception  of  the 
double  aspect  of  the  moral  problem,  that  men  ought  to  culti- 
vate both  the  gentle  virtues  and  the  qualities  that  go  with 
sturdy  contest.  Their  lives  should  exhibit  both  of  the  fun- 
damental phenomena  of  evolution,  namely,  the  integration  of 
power  and  its  differentiation. 

It  is  here  that  we  discover  the  true  origin  of  a  curious 
moral  fact  which  has  baffled,  not  only  the  uninstructed  man 
in  his  philosophizing,  but  also  the  philosopher  in  his  attempts 
to  account  for  the  vagaries  of  the  uninstructed  man :  the 
fact,  namely,  that  humanity  in  the  aggregate,  attempting  to 
adjust  itself  by  groping  and  experiment  to  the  fundamental 
conditions  of  life,  has  solved  its  problem  in  a  rough  experi- 
mental way  by  establishing  two  different  and  seemingly  contra- 
dictory moral  standards.  Readers  of  Mr.  Spencer's  book  on 
"The  Study  of  Sociology"  will  remember  the  sarcasm  with 
which  he  describes  our  ingenuous  devotion  to  these  two 
conflicting  standards.  Six  days  in  the  week  we  diligently 
follow  the  precepts  of  the  religion  of  competition  ;  on  the 
seventh  we  as  diligently  contemplate  the  beauties  of  the 
religion  of  compassion.  Mr.  Spencer  accurately  traces  this 
contradiction  in  conduct  back  to  its  origins  in  social  experi- 
ences of  the  past ;  but  he  might  have  gone  yet  farther,  and 


354  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

have  shown  that,  in  reality,  it  is  as  fundamental  as  the  distinc- 
tion between  the  integrational  and  the  differentiational  aspects 
of  universal  evolution  itself.  While  evolution  continues,  two 
standards  are  inevitable,  and  we  must  try  as  best  we  can  to 
reconcile  or  coordinate  them.  As  long  as  coordination  is  still 
imperfect,  we  must  at  one  time  be  hostile,  at  another  time 
benevolent;  at  one  time  remorseless,  at  another  time  com- 
passionate, unless  we  are  prepared  to  see  all  moral  activity 
disappear  in  brutality  on  the  one  hand,  or  in  degeneration  on 
the  other. 

This  is  exactly  what  the  practical  world  has  always  avowed, 
and  what  the  theorists,  dogmatists,  and  uncompromising  ideal- 
ists have  always  tried  to  get  away  from.  The  Nietzsches 
would  go  to  one  extreme,  the  Tolstois  to  another.  Mean- 
while, men  in  general  try  to  find  the  reciprocal  limitations  of 
their  conflicting  standards. 

The  attempt  has  not  been  guided  to  any  great  extent  by 
philosophy.  The  adjustment  has  been  made  tentatively,  ex- 
perimentally, more  by  groping  than  by  thinking,  and  it  has 
been  continued  through  a  long  historical  process.  Only  by 
glancing  back  over  this  history  in  rapid  review  can  we  dis- 
,  cover  whether,  on  the  whole,  we  are  still  the  primitive  egoists 
that  Nietzsche  would  approve,  or  sympathetic,  if  not  always 
close  and  believing,  followers  of  Count  Tolstoi'. 

We  must  go  back  to  that  little  group  of  blood  kindred 
which  was  the  earliest  human  community.  A  few  brothers 
and  sisters,  recognizing  their  maternal  kinship,  maintained  a 
common  lair  or  camp,  struggled  together  against  beast  and 
nature,  and  together  obtained  food  supplies.  Within  tliat 
little  band  the  competition  of  the  Darwinian  struggle  had, 
in  a  measure,  ceased.  Toward  all  life  that  lay  beyond  the 
circle  the  rule  was  unrelenting  war.  Here,  then,  at  the  out- 
set of  human  life,  the  two  standards  were  already  established. 
Helpfulness,  compassion,  forgiveness  even,  were  right  and 
expedient  within  the  grouj).  Remorseless  enrait}^  cruelty, 
treachery,  any  expedient  was  riglit  toward  those  men  or 
creatures  against  which,  the  band  must  struggle  for  its  own 
existence. 


THE   GOSPEL  OF  NON-RESISTANCE  355 

By  the  combination  of  such  small  hordes,  in  relatively 
large  aggregates,  tribes  were  formed.  By  the  federation  of 
tribes,  leagues  or  confederacies  were  formed.  By  the  con- 
solidation of  leagues,  nations  and  states  were  formed.  By 
the  consolidation  of  petty  states,  the  vast  territorial  nations 
of  modern  times  were  formed.  And  practically  all  of  this 
integration  was  accomplished  by  war. 

At  every  stage  in  this  progress,  the  double  standard  of 
conduct  has  been  assumed  and  maintained.  Those  within  a 
society  organized  by  confederation  or  consolidation  have  re- 
garded themselves  as  allies,  and  as  having  more  to  gain  from 
a  suppression  of  the  harsher  features  of  the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence among  themselves  than  by  permitting  them  to  continue. 
This  conclusion  they  have  derived  from  their  experience  of 
what  Professor  Karl  Pearson  has  called  the  "extra-group 
struggle."  That  is  to  say,  a  nation  has  always  obtained  a 
larger  sum  total  of  benefits  from  a  struggle  en  masse  with 
other  nations  en  masse  than  it  has  obtained  from  the  lesser 
struggles  of  its  component  groups  against  one  another,  or  from 
the  still  more  minute  struggles  of  its  individual  units  against 
one  another.  This  has  happened  because  the  extra-group 
struggle  of  nation  against  nation  has  afforded  abundant 
opportunities  for  individuals  to  distinguish  themselves  and 
to  develop  their  distinctive  qualities,  even  when  conflicts 
with  tribal  brethren  or  fellow-citizens  have  ceased ;  and  be- 
cause, also,  the  hardships  of  the  extra-group  struggle  —  the 
poverty,  pestilence,  and  taxation  resulting  from  war  —  have 
exterminated  great  numbers  of  the  unfit  within  each  nation. 
In  short,  intertribal  and  international  struggles  have  thus 
far  continued  the  processes  of  natural  selection ;  and,  not- 
withstanding the  growth  of  sympathy  and  benevolence 
within  the  nation,  panmixia  has  not  yet  in  more  than  one 
or  two  important  instances  prevented  a  gradual  accumula- 
tion of  power,  while  its  differentiation  has  continued. 

A  closer  examination  of  the  internal  phenomena  of  human 
societies  shows  us,  furthermore,  that  the  extension  of  sym- 
pathy and  the  gentler  virtues  from  horde  to  tribe,  from  tribe 
to  nation,  has  proceeded  only  as  fast  as  a  conception  of  like- 


356  DEMOCRACY  AND  EMPIRE 

ness  among  the  incorporated  elements  of  the  enlarged  com- 
munity has  grown  up  in  the  minds  of  the  people.  The  notion 
of  the  stranger  and  the  notion  of  the  enemy  were  identical 
in  the  early  days  of  human  struggle,  and  the  identity  has 
never  wholly  disappeared.  In  reality,  it  is  only  among  those 
•who  regard  themselves  as  in  some  sense  brethren,  as  being 
either  of  one  blood  or  spiritually  akin,  with  agreeing  ideas 
and  common  purposes,  that  non-resistance  is  a  strictly  natu- 
ral, spontaneous  phenomenon.  Divergence  of  view  and 
conflicting  purposes  normally  provoke  antagonism.  Conse- 
quently, the  growth  of  pacific  forms  of  conduct,  the  gradual 
ceasing  of  strife,  and  the  growth  of  habits  of  non-resistance 
have  been  made  possible  only  by  the  spread  of  knowledge ; 
by  the  better  comprehension  of  one  another  by  men  who 
once  misunderstood  one  another ;  by  the  perfecting  of  com- 
munication and  of  social  intercourse ;  and  by  a  gradual 
assimilation,  through  imitation  and  reciprocal  instruction,  of 
different  men  to  a  common  type.  In  a  word,  non-aggression 
and  non-resistance  are  an  outcome  of  homogeneity. 

A  further  inspection  of  the  detail  of  the  process  shows  us 
also  that  when  men  are  in  agreement  upon  fundamental 
matters  of  great  importance  for  the  purposes  of  everyday 
life,  they  may  live  in  outward  harmony,  actually  maintaining 
habits  of  non-aggression  and  non-resistance  as  far  as  physical 
combat  is  concerned,  while  differing  radically  in  minor  mat- 
ters, and  maintaining  the  fiercest  kind  of  industrial,  com- 
mercial, and  intellectual  struggles.  As  everybody  knows, 
this  is  the  state  of  things  that  exists  at  the  present  day  in 
nations  like  the  United  States,  where  actual  warfare  of  sec- 
tion against  section,  or  of  class  against  class,  is  practically 
unknown ;  where  riot  and  insurrection  are  rare  ;  and  where, 
as  compared  with  the  internal  disorder  of  ancient  times,  indi- 
vidual assaults  are  infrequent.  Tliere  is  fundamental  agree- 
ment in  such  a  population  upon  certain  great  principles  of  civil 
organization,  of  individual  liberty,  of  standards  of  conduct,  and 
of  103-alty  to  a  common  destiny.  In  all  lesser  matters  there  is 
the  widest  difference ;  and  in  its  commercial  and  intellectual 
modes  the  struggle  for  existence  is  fiercely  continued. 


THE   GOSPEL  OF  NON-RESISTANCE  357 

We  are  now  in  sight  of  our  conclusion  upon  the  main  ques- 
tion, whether  habits  of  non-aggression  and  non-resistance  in 
respect  of  the  grosser  modes  of  conflict  are  likely  to  be  estab- 
lished in  the  further  course  of  human  progress,  and  whether 
they  can  be  established  without  entailing  race  deterioration. 

At  the  present  time  nearly  the  whole  population  of  the  world 
is  distributed  among  great  nations  and  their  colonial  depen- 
dencies. Within  the  more  enlightened  nations,  habits  of  non- 
aggression  and  non-resistance  largely  dominate  the  affairs  of 
private  life.  To  predict  when  like  habits  will  govern  inter- 
national relations  would  be  rash  in  the  highest  degree. 

Because,  unless  the  course  of  history  is  to  be  reversed, 
further  progress  in  this  direction  will  be  made  only  through 
a  further  absorption  of  small  states  and  dependencies  in 
larger  political  aggregates.  Unless  the  whole  course  of  his- 
tory is  meaningless  for  the  future,  there  is  to  be  no  cessation 
of  war  —  of  extra-group  competition  —  until  vast  empires  em- 
brace all  nations.  Whether  in  such  empires  compassion  will 
co-exist  with  overpowering  might,  or  whether  the  suppression 
of  conflict  among  component  parts  will  be  followed  by  a 
hopeless  race  deterioration,  will  depend  on  the  character  of 
prevailing  political  systems.  If  they  are  highly  centralized, 
if  they  stamp  out  local  liberty,  suppress  individual  initiative, 
and  establish  socialism,  they  will  end  in  degeneration.  But 
if,  in  all  matters  except  that  general  loyalty  to  a  common 
destiny,  to  a  common  standard  of  conduct,  and  to  liberty, 
which  is  the  one  thing  necessary  for  imperial  unity,  they 
tolerate  local  and  ethnic  differences,  and  protect  individual 
freedom  —  if,  in  short,  they  are  democratic  empires  —  there 
will  still  be  struggle  and  competition  enough  to  ensure  the 
continuation  of  natural  selection. 

Only  when  the  democratic  empire  has  compassed  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  world  will  there  be  that  perfect  un- 
derstanding among  men  which  is  necessary  for  the  growth 
of  moral  kinship.  Only  in  the  spiritual  brotherhood  of  that 
secular  republic,  created  by  blood  and  iron  not  less  than  by 
thought  and  love,  will  the  kingdom  of  heaven  be  established 
on  the  earth. 


NOTE 

The  following  papers  and  addresses,  in  whole  or  in  part,  have  been  in- 
corporated in  this  volume : 

"  The  Ethical  Motive,"  International  Journal  of  Ethics,  Volume  VIII. 
Number  3,  April,  1898. 

"  The  Psychology  of  Society,"  Science,  New  Series  Volume  IX.,  Num- 
ber 210,  January  6,  1899. 

"  The  Practical  Value  of  Sociology  "  ("  The  Mind  of  the  Many").  An 
Address  before  the  General  Session  of  the  First  Annual  Meeting  of  The 
American  Academy  of  Political  and  Social  Science,  at  Philadelphia,  on 
the  evening  of  April  11,  1898.     Not  hitherto  published. 

"The  Ethics  of  Social  Progress"  ("The  Costs  of  Progress"),  Inter- 
national Journal  of  Ethics,  Volume  III.,  Number  2,  January,  189.3. 
(Included  also  in  "Philanthropy  and  Social  Progress,"  edited  by  Pro- 
fessor Henry  C.  Adams,  Boston,  T.  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.,  1893). 

Editorial  and  special  articles  in  Work  and  Wages  ("Industrial  De- 
mocracy"), Springfield,  Mass.,  188G-1887. 

"The  Ethics  of  Socialism"  ("Industrial  DemocYncy"),  International 
Journal  of  Ethics,  Volume  I.,  Number  2,  January,  1891. 

"  Combinations  of  Capital  in  Relation  to  National  Prosperity  "  ("  The 
Trusts  and  the  Public").  A  paper  read  at  the  Annual  Meeting  of  The 
American  Paper  and  Pulp  Association,  in  New  York  City,  February  17, 
1898.     Printed  in  Proceedings  of  the  Association,  1898. 

"  The  Railroads  and  the  State,"  The  Chatauquan,  Volume  X.,  Number 
4,  January,  1890. 

" Malthusiauism  and  Working  Women"  ("Some  Resiilts  of  the  Free- 
dom of  Women"),  The  Ethical  Record,  Volume  III.,  Number  2,  July, 
1890. 

"  The  Nature  and  Conduct  of  Political  Majorities,"  Political  Science 
Quarterly,  Volume  VIT..  Number  1,  March,  1892. 

"  The  Destinies  of  Democracy,"  Political  Science  Quarterly,  Volume 
XI..  Number  4,  December.  1896. 

"  The  Relation  of  Social  Democracy  to  the  Higher  Education."  A 
Commencement  Address  delivered  at  Rryn  Mawr  College,  June  7,  1894. 
Privately  printed,  but  not  hitherto  published. 

"  The  Popular  Instruction  most  Necessary  in  a  Democracy."  A  lecture 
of  the  Cambridge  (Mass.)  "Conferences"  Series,  November  4,  1898. 
Not  hitherto  published. 

359 


360  NOTE 

"The  Shadow  and  the  Substance  of  Republican  Government,"  The 
Independent,  Volume  XLIX.,  Number  2,560,  December  23,  1897. 

"  Imperialism."  A  paper  read  before  the  New  York  Academy  of  Polit- 
ical Science  on  the  evening  of  November  29,  1899.  Published  in  the 
Political  Science  Quarterly,  Volume  XIII.,  Number  4,  December,  1898. 

"  The  Survival  of  Civil  Liberty."  A  Commencement  Address  delivered 
at  Oberlin  College,  June  21,  1899.     Not  hitherto  published. 

"  The  Ideals  of  Nations."  A  lecture  of  the  Carew  Foundation,  deliv- 
ered at  the  Hartford  Theological  Seminary  on  the  evening  of  March  1, 
1899.     Not  hitherto  published. 


INDEX 


Aristotle,  the  "middle way,"  25;  man's 
need  of  society,  70;  on  slavery,  82: 
rights  of  majorities,  119 ;  education  of 
the  citizen,  231 ;  on  the  state  as  a 
means  to  the  good  life,  148,  330. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  on  equality,  64,  304 ; 
on  salvation  by  the  "  remnant,"  220. 

Anrelins,  Marcus,  intelligence  of  the 
universe  social,  96. 

Austerity,  ideal  of,  319,  334. 

Authority's.  Reason,  21. 

Baldwin,  J.  Mark, "  dialectic  of  personal 
growth,  30  et  :<eq. 

Bellamy,  Edward,  on  communistic  equal- 
ity, 120. 

"  Bciss  "  rule,  213,  253  et  seq. 

Butcher,  S.  H.,  individual  and  state  in 
Greece,  69. 

Calhoun,  J.  C,  concurrent  majority,  180. 

Christianity,  Tolstoi's  literal  interpre- 
tation of,  343  et  seq. 

Civil  liberty,  survival  of,  293  et  seq. 

Civil  service,  effect  of  expansion  on, 
286-287. 

Clifford,  W.  K.,  conception  and  defini- 
tion of  "  eject,"  31  n. 

Commissions,  State  Railroad,  155. 

Comjietition,  141,  147. 

Conduct,  motives  of,  16. 

Consciousness  of  kind,  3<>,  .38,  41. 

Consent  of  the  governed,  259  et  seq. 

Conviviality,  ideal  of,  318. 

Crime,  92,  171. 

Crusades,  55. 

Degeneration,  90,  .357. 

Democracy,  1  et  .-^eq. :  industrial,  99  et 
seq. ;  destinies  of,  199  et  seq. :  relation 
of,  to  education,  217  et  seq.,  231  et  seq. 

Democratic  Empire,  1,  357. 

Dialectic  of  personal  growth,  30  et  .se/7. 

Diplomatic  relations,  elf  ect  of  expansion 
on,  282,  283. 


Economic  motives,  17-19. 

Economic  slavery,  82. 

Education  in  a  democracy,  217,  231, 307. 

Emotionalism,  239,  240. 

Empire,  the  democratic,  1,  344,  357. 

Equality,  61,  120,  301,  337. 

Ethical  motive,  15  et  seq. 

Expansion,  causes  of,  270  et  seq. ;  effect 
of,  on  monetary  policy,  280 ;  on  tariff 
and  trade  policy,  281  et  seq. ;  on  civil 
service,  286,  287;  on  international  re- 
lations, 287  et  seq. 

Falknor,  R.  P.,  on  native  and  foreign- 
born  criminals  in  the  United  States, 92. 

Fraternity,  61,  338. 

Free  Coinage  of  Silver,  effect  of  expan- 
sion on,  278,  280. 

E'ree  trade,  effect  of  expansion  on,  280- 
282. 

George,  Henry,  confiscation  of  land,  117, 
161,  207. 

Huxley,  T.  H.,  on  combating  the  cosmic 
process,  344,  .345. 

Hyndman,  economic  history  of  Eng- 
land, 79. 

Ideals  of  nations,  315,  344. 
Immigration,  296. 
Imperialism,  xvii .,  269-293. 
Impulsive  action,  54,  272. 

Kidd,  Benjamin,  trade  with  the  tropics, 

284. 

Labour,  control  of  conditions  of,  90-122. 

Lassalle,  Ferdinand,  "The  Working- 
man's  Programme,"  99,  109. 

Lecky,  W.  E.  H.,  on  democracy,  200  et 
seq. 

Le  Play,  F.,  on  patriarchal  society,  133. 

Liberty.  7,  61,  200,  293. 

Like-Mindedness,  5,  50,  61,  63,  246. 


361 


362 


INDEX 


Local  self-government,  8,  62,  299. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  refusal  as  elector 
to  vote  for  Tilden,  252. 

McCook,  J.  J.,  on  tramps,  92. 

Mach,  Dr.  Ernst,  on  the  nature  of  sci- 
ence, 45. 

Maine,  Sir  Henry  Sumner,  on  democ- 
racy, 179. 

Majority  rule,  201,  261. 

Malthas,  T.  H.,  on  population,  170. 

Many,  mind  of  the,  45  et  seq. 

"  Might  makes  Right,"  true  and  false, 
S48  et  seq. 

Militarism,  7. 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  on  relation  of  woman's 
economic  independence  to  increase  of 
population,  173;  on  minority  repre- 
sentation, 180. 

Mind  of  the  many,  45  et  seq. 

Minority  representation,  180. 

Mol)  action,  54. 

Monetary  system,  effect  of  expansion 
on,  279,  280. 

Monojiolies,  150. 

Nations,  ideals  of,  315  et  seq. 
Natural  selection,  345,  355. 
Naturalization,  5. 
New  England  morality  and  preaching, 

far-reaching  beneficent  influence  of, 

242  et  seq. 
Nietzsche,  Friedrich,  on  morality  and 

natural  selection,  346. 
Non-resistance  of  evil,  gospel  of,  343  et 

seq. 

Oberlin,  J.  F.,  transformation  of  the 
Ban  de  la  Roche,  310. 

Panmixia,  345,  355. 

Parkman,  Francis,  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury the  riddle  of  history,  219;  edu- 
cational duty  of  woman,  227. 

Pauperism,  171. 

Pearson,  Karl,  on  socialism  and  the 
strug<;le  for  existence,  114. 

Personality,  72. 

Plato,  doctrine  of  subordination  and  pro- 
portion, 26;  rights  of  majorities,  119; 
of  the  state  as  the  perfect  expression 
of  man's  rational  and  moral  nature, 
XV),  ,335. 

Poor  relief,  93. 

Population,  laws  of  growth  of,  78,  80, 
87. 

Poverty,  persistence  of,  81. 

Power,  ideal  of,  317,  322. 


Progress,  69  et  seq. ;    costs  of,  69  et 

seq. 
Protectionism,  160 ;  effect  of  ezpansioa 

on,  280-282. 
Public  ownership,  148,  254. 
Public  policy,  6,  41,  60, 182, 195. 

Railroads  and  the  state,  147  et  seq. 
Rationalism,  21,  56,  212,  233,  235,  240, 

243,  245,  309. 
Rationally  conscientious  man,  307,  320, 

328,  336. 
Republican    government,    shadow    and 

substance  of,  251  et  seq, ;  stability  of, 

288,  293  et  seq. 
Responsibility,  of  workingmen,  130, 131 ; 

as  a  moralizing  influence,  286. 
Revenue,  public,  159  et  seq. 
Revivals,  as  schools  of  impulsive  social 

action,  57. 
Revolutions,  as  forms  of  impulsive  so- 
cial action,  54. 

Single  tax,  116,  207. 

Smith,  Adam,  on  combinations  of  em- 
ployers, 106. 

Social  values,  59. 

Society,  psychology  of,  29  et  seq.,  45  et 
seq.;  description  of,  45  et  seq. 

Socialism,  84,  103,  113,  118,  119,  220,  255, 
357. 

Sociology,  29,  48. 

Specialization  in  education,  good  and 
evil,  25. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  imperfection  of  wages 
system,  107 ;  piece  pajniient  in  coop- 
eration, 128;  on  conflicting  moral 
standards,  353. 

State  ownership  of  railroads,  etc.,  148, 
254. 

Suffrage,  103,  203,  209,  211,  214. 

Sumner,  W.  G.,  objections  to  multiply- 
ing functions  of  the  state,  unequal 
distribution  of  social  Ijurdens,  111; 
answer  to  objections  of,  115. 

Tariff,  protective,  effect  of  expansion 
on,  280-282. 

Taxation,  116,  159. 

Taylor,  H.  O.,  "  Ancient  Ideals,"  316. 

Tolstoi.  Count  Leo,  "The  Gospel  of  Non- 
Resistauce,"  .'^43. 

Trade,  development  of,  through  expan- 
sion, 2.S()-2S5. 

Trade  Unions,  106,  132. 

Tropics,  relation  of,  to  civilization,  283- 
285. 

Trusts,  109,  137,  150,  304. 


INDEX 


363 


Universal  suffrage,  103,  203,  211. 
Unskilled  labour,  increasing  worthless- 
ness  of,  83. 

Variation,  social,  53. 
Village  community,  184. 


Walpole,  Horace,  political  corruption  in 

time  of,  287. 
War  with  Spain,  causes  of,  270  et  seq. ; 

consequences  of,  279  et  seq. 
Weismann,  August,  panmixia,  346. 
Woman  suffrage,  209,  214. 
Women,  freedom  of,  167  et  seq. 


THE   ELEMENTS    OF    SOaOLOGY 

A  Text-Book  for  Colleges 
and   Schools 


FRANKLIN  HENRY  GIDDINGS,   M.A., 

Professor  of  Sociology  in  Columbia  University 

(Columbia  University  Press) 
8vo.     Cloth.     $3.00,  net 


New  York  Times: 

"  Of  its  extreme  interest,  its  suggestiveness,  its  helpfulness  to  a  reader 
to  whom  social  questions  are  important,  but  who  has  not  time  or  in- 
clination for  special  study,  we  can  bear  sincere  and  grateful  testimony." 

Congregatioiialist : 

"  Professor  Giddings  has  prepared  a  text-book  elementary  in  character 
and  untechnical  though  scientific  in  plan.  It  has  been  especially  pre- 
pared for  the  use  of  colleges  and  schools,  and  is  clear,  comprehensive, 
and  scholarly.  It  follows  the  development  of  society  intelligently  and 
impressively  from  the  beginnings  to  its  present  stage,  and  interprets  the 
significance  of  history,  pointing  out  the  conditions  which  are  to  be 
sought  if  the  future  is  to  be  what  it  should  be.  It  deserves  hearty 
favor." 

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"  Professor  Giddings  impresses  the  reader  equally  by  his  indepen- 
dence of  judgment  and  by  his  thorough  mastery  of  every  subject  that 
comes  into  his  view." 


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THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  SOCIOLOGY. 

AN  ANALYSIS    OF    THE   PHENOMENA    OF  ASSOCIATION  AND    OF 
SOCIAL    ORGANIZATION. 

By  FRANKLIN   HENRY  GIDD1N05,  M.A., 

Profeisor  of  Sociology  in  Columbia  University,  in  the  City  of  New  Yorlu 
(COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY   PRESS.) 

8vo.     Cloth.     $3.00,  net. 


"  The  book  is  especially  valuable  because  of  the  clearness  and  fulness  with 
which  it  discusses  the  psychical  elements  in  social  evolution. 

"  Professor  Giddings  has  done  good  service  by  his  clear  exposition  of  the 
present  stage  of  sociology,  and  he  has  made  a  distinct  and  valuable  contribution 
to  the  subject.  The  book  is  also  timely,  and  will  doubtless  have  wide  reading 
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cial throughout."  —  The  Bookman. 

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students  of  sociology.  We  have  a  valuable  treatise  which  will,  we  believe,  for 
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and  a  strong  writer,  and  he  has  a  broad  knowledge  of  his  subject  and  its  various 
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ists and  non-scientific  sociologists. 

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ology will  give  a  hearty  welcome  to  Professor  Giddings'  book."- — Boston  Daily 
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ject which  is  engaging  the  sustained  labors  of  our  foremost  scholars,  and  the 
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tant service  to  what  may  be  termed  theoretic  municipalism.  .  .  .  One 
that  all  those  interested  in  municipal  matters  should  read.  .  .  .  Moderate 
in  tone,  sound  in  argument,  and  impartial  in  its  conclusions,  it  is  a  work 
that  deserves  to  carry  weight."  —  London  Liberal. 

"  Here  is  without  doubt  one  of  the  most  trenchant  and  scholarly  con- 
tributions to  political  science  of  recent  writing,  remarkable  for  analyti- 
cal power  and  lucidity  of  statement."  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

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